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JOHN ALLEN RIDING JUPITER. 



The Confessions of 
John Allen 



(and other poems) 



JOHN ALLEN 



Chicago 
MANDEL & PHILLIPS CO. 






2 
&c/. 3l£, , 
I 17 10 9 



COPYRIGHT MCMV 

BY 

MANDEL & PHILLIPS 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Confessions of John Allen 7 

The Storm 65 

I Confess 71 

Art and Life 83 

Forbidden Fruit 96 

Masks and Faces 98 

Waiting 103 

Reflect no 

"'The Climber no 

Gratitude 137 

The Gifts of Life 144 

A Promise 151 

Success 155 

M v Desolate Heart 160 

What Music Is 167 

Silhouettes 176 

What the Devil Said 184 

My Confession to Satan 196 

I Try to Cast Off My Woe 210 

Before the Gates 223 

The New City 224 

^ Osceola 235 

- The Watchers of the Trail 250 

v Ramona 263 

* Davy Crocket's Ride 269 

v The Legend of the Argentine 277 

. aIoanee 288 



page 

• The Oregonian 300 

Mirage 3*3 

A Nun's Temptation 319 

' Good-bye, Sweetheart 323 

v I Miss Thee 324 

\ 1 1 \e Forevermore 325 

* Retrospection 326 

The Exile's Lament 327 

M idwinter 3 2 9 

Life's Woes 330 

On Ice 33i 

Spring 33 2 

" In Winter 333 

The Days of Long Ago 334 

To My Soul 337 

My Wants 338 

Poland 339 

Have Faith in Thyself 340 

She is Not to Blame 34 2 

Clouds and Sunshine 344 

The Steamboat 345 

True 346 

The Brown Little Man 347 

Easter Tide 349 

vYule 350 

v December Days 35 2 

The Seasons 354 



THE CONFESSIONS OF 
JOHN ALLEN. 



THE CONFESSIONS OF 
JOHN ALLEN 



T JOHN ALLEN, of Chicago, 

9 Having fasted for years in the Wilderness ; 
Having crossed the burning sands of the Desert ; 
Having wept and moaned in the Shadows ; 
Now come forth upon the dark arena of the 
World, with a new light, a new faith, 
To complete the work we were placed on earth to do ; 
To annihilate the bandits that surround Life; 
To make announcements extraordinary, and original ; 
To break every tie held dear to the human heart ; 
To mould the nations into one great family ; 
To plant the seeds of the New Love in all hearts ; 
To banish the fads and follies of society ; 
To shatter every system now in vogue ; 
To break every law that now exists ; 
To consign the politician to oblivion ; 
To plough the dark continent of the body; 



8 THE CONFESSIONS 

To destroy the religions of the universe; 

To tear down the galleries and homes of Art ; 

To demolish the power of gold ; 

To banish every actor and theatre ; 

To banish every sorrow, every fear, and 

To bring back the Paradise that Adam cast 

Away, five thousand years ago. 

No time was ever more auspicious for 
Such work than the present, for the world 
Is in the grasp of false leaders, false prophets, 
Irresponsible statesmen, crafty lawyers, 
Useless judges, combinations of capital and 
Labor, and will certainly be throttled or 
Shipwrecked, if some strong arm is not 
Stretched forth to save it. O, that it may 
Accept me as its Saviour, and that my 
Strength, my voice, my pen (trinity indispensable), 
May not fail me, till my high mission is 
Accomplished, and the sun of the New Faith 
Shines gloriously down on every nation on its Bosom. 

Before I take another step, however, in this 
My Life's great work, I will set forth where first 



OF JOHN ALLEN. g 

I saw the ''light of day", or "night", as it should 

Be, and a brief history of myself, which 

Will be enlarged upon, when I enter the scenes 

Of the Desert, the Wilderness, and the Deep Shadows. 

I was born in the City of Chicago. My father 
Was a sailor on the lakes, and died some 
Months before I was born — so I never saw 
His face, and never knew a father's love, 
Which may not have been such a great 
Misfortune after all, for had he lived, 
He might have interfered with my ambitions, 
And like the majority of zealous parents, 
Demanded that I walk the paths he had 
Laid out for me, and this would never 
Have suited me at all, and would have 
Cut short the career of the greatest Saviour 
That ever walked the bosom of the Earth. 
His death, however, greatly affected Mother, 
And cast her upon the tender mercies of 
The wise old world, to fight the battle of 
Life as best she could, and to provide 
A living for us both. Heavy was the 
Burden placed upon her, and nobly 



10 THE CONFESSIONS 

She took it up. Never once she faltered. 
She had the bravest heart the world e'er 
Knew, and where strong- men in her 
Position faltered and failed, she succeeded. 
Her needle was never idle, day or night, 
And many were the beautiful dresses 
She turned out for delighted patrons, 
Some of whom were members of the 
Most exclusive and wealthy families 
In the city. Yet in the midst of her 
Busy life she never once neglected me. 
She always found time to caress me. She 
Was fond of me — excessively fond — too fond. 
And sought by every means in her power 
To gratify my every whim — but alas ! all 
Her kindness and attentions failed to make 
Me happy. I was a child of eight, but 
Felt like a man of thirty. I was beginning 
To think — seriously — deeply on the problems 
Of life, and this always cast a shadow 
O'er the momentary joys the Fates granted 
Me. The playful chatter of my school 
Companions ; the solemn advice of my 
Teachers ; the lessons that were planned 



OF JOHN ALLEN. II 

But never learned ; the deep love of mother — 

All passed me by as trifles too light 

To engage my attention. I stood apart 

From them. Why, I could not explain, 

But I seemed to feel in the inmost depths of 

My heart and soul, that I was reserved 

By the All-Wise Providence above for some 

High and special mission, and that I was 

Not to concern myself with the trifling, 

Butterfly events of the hour, but with the 

Deep — the everlasting problems of life. These 

Problems generally resolved themselves 

Into, why were we placed 

On Earth? Whither are we going? What are the 

Things we should do while we are here? Why 

Do we suffer, and why did not the Saviours 

Of the past bring salvation to the world? 

In this wise were my days spent at home, at 

St. Joseph's, and the Holy Family Schools. 

But a change soon came which added 

Novelty to my somewhat monotonous 

Existence. A Jesuit priest one day singled 

Me out of a crowd of boys, and asked 

Me if I would not like to attend the 



12 THE CONFESSIONS 

College of which he was then the Rector. 
He said he had watched me carefully 
For many days, and noted that I was 
Totally unlike all the boys whom he 
Came in contact with, and that I would 
Certainly make good material for the 
Jesuit Order. Of course I was delighted 
To have a great man (as I then considered 
Him) take such an interest in me, and I 
Replied with gravity due the situation, that 
I would be only too pleased to attend the 
College, but that there was one drawback 
To the undertaking, namely, Mother 
Could never pay for my tuition 
There. This, however, he said, need prove 
No obstacle in my path, and he offered 
Me a free scholarship, urging me to 
Accept at once. His liberality and 
Kindness overpowered me, and it was 
Sometime before I could command 
Myself sufficiently to reply that I could 
Not accept his offer until I consulted 
Mother about it. "Very well then,'' he said. 
Patting me on the back, "go at once and 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 13 

See her, and let me know her decision. 
I shall await it with impatience." 

When I arrived home that night and 
Related to Mother, all that had transpired, 
She clasped me in her arms and wept for 
Joy at my good fortune, but on second 
Thought, through her tears she declared 
That she would never allow me to accept 
A free scholarship. And she kept her 
Word. I was duly entered at the College 
With tuition fully paid, and began my 
Studies with all the eagerness of youth. 
They possessed a strange fascination for me 
At first, but I frankly confess they soon 
Ceased to interest me at all. In fact they 
Appeared unpardonably dull to my youthful 
Roving eye, and I promptly said so to my 
Astonished professors, and further declared 
With considerable warmth, that Latin, 
Greek, and Algebra were certainly refined 
Inventions of the Devil bequeathed to the 
Descendants of Adam, to give them a 
Foretaste of what they might expect on 



I4 THE CONFESSIONS 

Their arrival at Hades. For these 
Rebellious ideas I was severely reproved 
By the Rector, and brusquely informed that 
I would be dismissed from the College if 
I did not apply myself more warmly to 
My studies. Threats however possessed no terrors 
For me, they never did, and I continued in the same 
Old way, with an occasional entertaining lecture 
From my Teacher, on that enlightened 
And ancient society popularly known 
As "Blockheads," by way of variety. To 
Tell the truth, however, it was not dullness on 
My part, nor the dry studies that brought about 
This state of affairs at college. Life was the cause of 
It all. It was my thought by day, my dream 
By night. I saw what no other eyes could see — 
Life helplessly entangled in the snares — Life sur- 
rounded 
By millions of bandits in the Wilderness, the Desert 
And the Dark Shadows, and I firmly resolved 
In the very depths of my heart, to the neglect of 

everything 
Else, Earthly, Heavenly or otherwise, to become its 
Saviour, to brush away its snares, and to 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 15 

Annihilate the bandits that surrounded it. 

This determination of course, caused me to bid 

Adieu to all studies, to all professors, and the 

College itself, and thus at an early age, 

I found myself standing tremblingly at 

The threshold of the Dark Shadows. How I 

Passed through them, what scenes I witnessed there, 

What people I conversed with, and what thoughts 

Entered my head, day by day, I will now 

Relate, but it is indeed with a heavy heart, 

That I pull aside the curtains, to retrace my 

Steps once more among them. 



THE DARK SHADOWS. 
I. 

' I A HE Dark Shadows ! — trembling with sorrow-laden 

Heart, I walk where fall their sylvan types, 
Beneath the weeping willows — the giant-like 
Oaks — the sombre evergreens — the wide-spreading 
Elms — shadows that I always knew, when but 
A barefoot-boy upon the prairies. They 
Were present always, save when the sun came 
From its bed of gold and roses. 'Twas then 



1 6 THE CONFESSIOXS 

I played with my companions ; 'twas then the 

World with all its folly, vice, and crime, lived 

( )n unknown, unheeded by me in the 

Distance dim, and I was happy till the 

Evening shadows lengthened o'er the lonely 

I Vairies ; then sad longings filled my heart : 

Quiet tears suffused my eyes, and my weary 

Head I laid upon the bosom of the 

Earth, and sobbed as if my heart would break. The 

Dark Shadows were upon me. 

II. 

Within their 
Gloomy depths I groped my weary way ; hoping. 
Vainly hoping that the sun would send its 
Floods of gold to o'erwhelm the Shadows, and 
Shine on — forevermore ; but alas ! it 
Came not down, and the Shadows reigned supreme. 
In the Dark Shadows — naught is found, but bitter 
Tears, and broken hearts, and hopeless loves. Ofttimes 
I wonder and I ask, "Why was I placed 
Upon the Earth, a gloomy untamed 
Animal — to wander weeping, moaning, 
Asking, vainly asking, up and down the 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 7 

Shadows dark, if Shadows are to be my 

Lot, but sugary philosophy, or 

Silence grim and terrible is the only 

Answer I receive." This much, though, I know, 

And know it well, that I shall find no peace, 

Nor rest, till I am laid within the silent 

Tomb. All this dawned on me in the Shadows 

Dark, and directly woe, unutterable 

Woe came stealing o'er me, and convulsed my 

Frame. I was all alone, and felt my 

Misery and loneliness, as shipwrecked 

Souls feel theirs on desert isles. There was no 

Hand stretched forth to smooth the hair back from my 

Fevered brow ; no voice to cheer my throbbing 

Heart, no loving lips to kiss my woe away. 

The Dark Shadows were with me — these and 

Nothing more. The deepest gloom was everywhere. 

There seemed to be a sob on every breeze, and 

I stood with head bowed on my breast before 

It all. O, how I longed for the sun to 

Come with all its fluid gold, to wash the 

Shadows from the Earth — forevermore ! 

"Come 
Down, come down, thou glorious sun," I cried 



1 8 THE CONFESSIONS 

In my deep agony ; "come down with showers 
Of gold, and wash away the Shadows dark 
That make of life a mockery and living 
Hell ; come down and guide me on through all the 
Gloom, to Peace, and Rest, and Happiness!" I 
Turned, and saw a struggling mass of people 
Winding snake-like through the shadows. Their voices 
Reached my ears — "John Allen, the first shadows 
Fell within the Garden. They are falling 
Still. There is no peace, no rest within them. 
Helplessly we drag our weary feet along. 
Hopelessly we look from right to left. All 
Is dark. Everywhere the shadows fall. We 
Are helpless ; you are strong. The blackness of 
The night is on us now. We know not whence 
It came. You have studied it for years. You 
Know it well. Be our Saviour from it now — 
Now while the tempests rage, and gloom abides." 
"Yes ! I'll be your Saviour," came the words from 
Out my lips ; but I trembled when I spoke, 
And fancy too, how pale I must have been. 
Millions of frenzied eyes were on me! 
Millions of arms now wildly waved in air ! 
Millions of voices, thrilled with agony, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Cried out : "O, save us ! save us, John Allen ! 
Save us from the darkness of the shadows, 
From the bitterness, and all the woe. Tarry 
Not a moment longer. Be our Saviour 
Now r 

"Yes ! I'll be your Saviour," once again 
I murmured low. Then as I thought of Life 
And all its misery supreme; of the 
Morgue, and the young and wayward maid lying 
Dead and cold upon its table ; of the 
Bride deserted at the altar ; of the 
New-born babe left on the doorstep ; of the 
Secret deed of shame ; of the mother old 
And gray deserted by her children, I 
Turned away deep crushed with grief, and with 
Bitter thoughts for the coming sacrifice. 

III. 
I am the great Destroyer ! I am the 
Great Sufferer, and the while I suffer, 
I make ready to destroy. I come with 
Sharp pointed weapons, and nothing in the 
World shall dare withstand me, no, not even 



19 



20 THE CONFESSIONS 

Time itself ! I love the Past no better 

Than the Present ; they are one, and these I 

Will destroy. The Present is nothing but 

A shadow of the Past, and the world has 

Learned absolutely nothing from it, for 

Its Present is to-day identical 

With its Past. We have to-day our murderers, 

Our suicides; our births; our deaths; our lovers; 

Our men of fame; our politicians just 

The same as in the Past, but the World learns 

Nothing from it all. It rolls merrily 

On, but suffers dreadfully from the 

Shadows that fall upon it. 

Whenever 
I go forth and see two happy lovers, 
Newly wed, locked in each other's arms — a 
Paradise to them, and return to find 
The fair one fled, and he in tears, and hear 
The same old story, how a stranger with 
A piercing eye, and winning way, was the 
Cause of her false step, I look back, and see 
Adam and Eve, and the snake in the 
Garden. When I read in the newspapers, 
Of a murder, a picture of Cain and 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 21 

Abel, always rises to my eyes. When 

I hear of Brigham Young, his wives, and the 

Temple in that "City of the Saints," I 

Think at once of Solomon, the splendor 

Of his court, and his myriad wives. When I 

Read of the British-Boer, and Japo-Russian 

Wars, I call to mind the wars of Rome with 

Carthage, and the Franco-German War. Would 

You have me read the riddle of America 

Acquiring the Philippines, the 

Hawaiian Isles, and Porto Rico? 

Lo! you have it in Rome extending her 

Territory at the expense of all 

Her neighbors. You have it in England 

Seizing India, the Transvaal, Thibet — 

Shadows, shadows, everyone of them — ever 

The Dark Shadows — no bold orginality — 

No attempt at freedom — these I will destroy. 

IV. 
Long has the sun been shining, 
Long has the world rolled round, 
Long have the mountains stood, 
Long have the rivers flowed, 



22 THE CONFESSIONS 

Long have the states cried for salvation, 
Long have they waited for my coming. 

Greater than the Northman's discovery of America, 

Greater than the landing of Columbus, 

Greater than De Soto's discovery of the Mississippi, 

Greater than the Spanish explorations, 

Greater than the Cabots' expeditions, 

Greater than the Pilgrims landing at Plymouth, 

Greater than Hudson's discovery of the river, 

Greater than Penn's arrival with the Quakers, 

Greater than Washington's triumphs, 

Greater than Franklin's genius, 

Greater than Scott's victories in Mexico, 

Greater than Lincoln's administration, 

Greater than Grant's or Sherman's victories, 

Is my coming to the states, and the Faith I bring. 

Not with banners flying, nor with bands 
A-playing, do I come, things fit for 
Kindergartens only; not like the 
Cautious scribe of history, seeking for 
Favorite expressions and situations ; 
Nor like the minister, the poet, the 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 23 

Orator (poor fools), lauding their country 
To the skies, but I come with that which will 
Wipe away the Shadows for all time — the 
Shadows that have hung o'er the land, for a 
Century and more. I can see them, wise 
Old world, if you cannot. I can trace them 
'Neath the maples, and the pines of Maine. They 
Hover o'er the white-clad mountains, and the 
Lakes of old New Hampshire. I find them in 
The footprints of the Iroquois ; the forests 
Of Vermont, and where the 
Connecticut river flows. Dark, dark are 
The shadows, dark, and full of pain. 

V. 

The 
Hardy toiler of the mills, returning 
From his work at close of day, is met by 
His little children with their arms outstretched, 
And by the busy housewife, calling from the door ; 
And as he kisses each in turn, and feels 
Their arms entwined around his neck, his heart 
Is rilled with love, and life seems fair and sweet 
To him. In the fullness of his heart, the 



24 THE CONFESSIONS 

Words flow from his lips, "God bless my home, my 

Wife, and little ones, and God bless my own, 

My native State, the cradle of our 

Liberty — Massachusetts great and grand !" 

Yes, poor fool ! draw down God's blessing on the 

Soil that was nursed with the bones, and deluged 

With the blood of misguided men, called 

Patriots ! What to him is the State he 

Lives in? Is it better than any other 

State? Within its boundaries, he toils and 

Earns his living by the sweat of his brow, 

Just as thousands of others do. The State 

Gives him nothing. If he falls sick, and has 

Xo money, it remains passive. If he 

Works and earns money, it is passive. If 

He dies and is buried, it still is passive. 

The State is nothing. 'Tis merely a piece 

Of clay with a label, same as a man. 

Yet, you will find hundreds such as he, who 

Continually laud their States to the 

Skies — the States that absolutely do 

Nothing for them, except perhaps to grant 

Them the privilege of walking on the 

Soil, and in some instances even this 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 2 $ 

Is prohibited by signs that read, 

"Keep off the grass." Call down your blessings, poor 

Wretch ! What to you is Bunker Hill, and 

Lexington, or Concord and Boston? What 

Are they now to the so-called patriots, 

Whose bones have gone to nurse the soil beneath 

Them? Nothing whatever! Mere themes for the 

Song-writer, the poet, the novelist, 

And the historian. 

VI. 

Sometimes I try 
To drown the grief I feel. Sometimes I try 
To blot the shadows that ever flit 
Before me, but alas ! 'tis all in vain ! 
The grief will not be drowned, nor the shadows 
Blotted from my life. Others can walk 
Along the road of life, and look upon 
The fields and flowers, and purple walls of trees 
On either side; can listen to the 
Melodies of feathered warblers, and the 
Cheerful chatter of the little children at 
Their play ; can watch the gaudy colored 
Butterflies a-wing, the flying flowers of 



26 THE CONFESSIONS 

The air ; can attend the services at 

Church ; can walk arm-in-arm with orphans, 

Tramps and beggars, and find in each and 

Every thing and person, a note of that 

Which they are pleased to term the "beautiful 

Song of Life," but try how I will, I can 

Find naught but shadows grim and dark, and 

Full of pain. Shall I walk forth where mirth holds 

Sway, while shadows fall ? 

VII. 

At sunset with 
Agonies raging in my heart, I watch 
The workmen, women, and children, pouring 
Out in steady streams from the trade-palaces 
On State Street. The tall buildings, that almost 
Throne their scalps above the clouds, wear an air 
Of gloomy grandeur, at the closing hour. 
Bells of cable-cars are ringing ! Newsboys 
Shouting "Chicago-American," "News" 
Or a "Journal," the "Sporting Extra !" Wagons 
Rattle up and down the street, and then comes 
The army of workmen, women, and children, 
Pushing along with impatient feet. What 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 2 J 

Walking histories have we here ? What 
Pages of destiny ! Terrible to 
Think of ! Terrible to dream of ! What a 
Horrible mockery of life it is, 
That passes away into the night. What 
A terrible day it has been for them 
All ! No prisoner in Siberia's 
Darkest, and bitterest depths, has suffered 
More misery, than these poor wretches for 
The day. Some of them will strenuously 
Deny that they have suffered. But, O tear 
Aside the mask, and see the scars ! Behold 
How they groan out forgotten lives from 
Garret to basement, from counter to desk, 
For paltry salaries, which the Merchant- 
Bandits are pleased to hand them from their 
Plunder. And this is what society 
Is pleased to term employment, this work in 
The big stores. Employment? Why this is not 
Employment at all. It is slavery ! 
We might as well take off the sugar coating, 
And tell the truth once in a while. These humble 
Workers are the white slaves of the twentieth 
Century ! Slavery is not a thing 



28 THE CONFESSIONS 

Of the past. It is as common as our 

Everyday life, but it is masked under 

Different titles. Slavery is one 

Of America's greatest institutions, and 

"The Land of the Free," is one of the most 

Brilliant mottoes of sarcasm that 

America boasts to-day ! It has been 

Said that the "night was made for coons," but I 

Say that Americans were born for the 

Night — for in the day they are slaves in their 

Refined prisons. The old feudal days have 

Not passed away by any means. The 

Name of the system has changed, that's all. 

To-day, baronial castles are called 

Palaces of trade ; the slaves, employes ; 

And the barons, lords, and what-not, employers. 

So you see the shadows of the old days 

Rest on our present system ! And the treatment 

Within their walls ! Why, no 

Slaves of the past, or prisoners of the 

Present, ever bowed their heads before more 

Imperious masters than the employers 

Of to-day. And these same employers always 

Select for managers, first-class slave-drivers 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

From among their employes, men who have 

No sympathy whatever for the 

Miserable wretches, the cattle who 

Have to do their bidding, or lose the 

Position that is keeping body and 

Soul together. Not that the lost position 

Is a prize to be wept over, but because 

The damnable condition of present 

Day society, forces workers to 

Fear the loss of it. These managers, clothed 

With brief authority, exert all their 

Powers to hide the abilities of 

Others from the proprietor's eyes, 

In order that they may shine with greater 

Lustre, and receive praise for things which they 

Have never done. This is, indeed, Christian 

Charity with a vengeance! 

And to think 
Of it ! these employes, these slaves are to 
Be the future fathers and mothers of 
America ! Just think of it, they are 
To raise children to move through the dark 
Shadows, just as they are doing to-day ! 



29 



3o 



THE CONFESSIONS 



Just fancy what a magnificent race 
Of Spartans we must expect from these 
Men and women of the prisons ! 

Yet, the 
Big stores on State Street, with all their faults, are 

great 
Educators. This fact cannot be denied. 
They are just the places to learn respect 
For proprietors and managers, 
Who lie; just the places to learn how to 
Crush out all kind feelings from the heart; just 
The places to learn how to lie and cheat ; 
Just the places to learn that society 
Is nothing but a sham ; just the places 
To learn how to crush out all respect and 
Love of country from your soul; just the places 
To learn that you are not human ; just the 
Places to learn that you are looked upon 
By your employers as so much cattle ; 
Just the places to learn that your vote 
Politically must be used as the 
Employers so direct; just the places 
To learn that you must not think, for 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Anybody found guilty of the crime 
Of thinking, will be severely dealt with. 
Universities are really of no 
Use when these great educational 
Institutions exist. 

In the 
State Street stores, there is absolutely 
Nothing to be hoped for by the poor 
Wretches behind desks and counters, 
For employers will correct none 
Of the crying abuses of the present. They 
Have sold their honor and their souls for gold, 
And you are slaves ! But tremble not ! I have 
Come to save you. I have come to destroy 
The rotten system of the present, and 
To erect on its ashes, the new cities 
With the New Faith, that shall heal all bleeding 
Hearts, and make of earth a Paradise till 
Judgment Day. 

VIII. 

Weary and still in the clutches 
Of my woe, I draw aside the curtains — 



31 



3^ 



THE CONFESSIONS 



I gaze out upon the world, and find that 
There exists in our present damnable 
System, three kinds of society. But, 
To tell the truth there is but one great class, 
Namely the common or poor people, which 
Has given birth to the others. The only 
Distinction my eyes can find between them, 
Is that which is found between snow, ice, and 
Water. They are all water, and all it 
Requires to verify it, is for the sun 
To come with all its power and majesty. 
To melt the snow and ice into water, 
The great common body. I have grown 
Aweary of the ravings and distinctions 
Of society, for I am the sun of 
Salvation, and I have come to melt its 
Snow and ice, into its proper sphere — the 
Great common body. But, as it stands now, 
There are three classes in existence ; the 
High class, to which the millionaires belong; 
The middle class, or the well-to-do, and 
The lower class, better known, and despised 
As the poor. It is really unfortunate 
That they are compelled to live together, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

For they cordially hate, and ape 

Each other. High society sets the pace, 

And the classes immediately below, 

Follow up in a less pretentious 

Manner. Shadows ! Nothing but shadows ! There 

Is one thing, however, which High Society 

Does, which like a charitable mantle, 

Covers a multitude of its sins, and 

That is, its feverish anxiety to 

Keep from the newspapers, all notices 

Of its engagements, its marriages, its 

Tears, its joys, its barbaric costumes, its 

Receptions, its divorces, its — sins, and 

All that kind of thing; but with all its 

Precautions, it does seem strange how 

Copyrighted photos of its 

Monkeys creep into the vulgar newspapers, 

Coupled with charming accounts of its 

Acrobatic triumphs. The only explanation 

I can offer for this peculiar state 

Of affairs, is that a traitor must live 

Within the lines, who sells his or her 

Information to the enemy — the Editor, 

Who in turn exposes his war secrets 



33 



34 



THE CONFESSIONS 



To the vulgar gaze of the vulgar herd. 
This must be the truth, and truth triumphs 
Every time, for we all well know how shy 
Society is about appearing in print. 
Mercy ! Anything but that ! Why, if 
Society was to be written up every 
Day, it would melt away like snow before 
The April sun. The very essence of 
Its existence, consists in screening 
Itself from the public gaze. Society 
In this respect, is like the actors, who 
Would rather not have audiences, while 
They are performing. 

High Society 
Has many trials, many humiliations. 
Two of its greatest humiliations, 
Two that gall at all times, are the facts, first 
That its existence depends entirely 
On the lower class ; second, that its revenue 
Is derived from the sale of vulgar cattle, 
Canned-goods, soaps, perfumes, toilet-paper, and 
Other things less familiar. It seems a 
Pity that Society is compelled to 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 35 

Deal in the aforesaid vulgarities, 

And to stain its immaculate hands with 

The vulgar money of the vulgar plebians. 

There ought to be some method by which 

The sacred barriers of society could 

Be upheld, and the vulgar lucre kept 

Out of its coffers. Then all its humiliations 

Would fade away. How it must gall the 

Astors to know that the vulgar fortune 

They possess, was made from the sale of the 

Vulgar skins of the vulgar animals ! 

How it must gall the Rockefellers to 

Know that the wealth they possess, was made 

From the vulgar oil, of the vulgar soil ! 

How it must gall the Armours, to know that 

The wealth they have, was made from the sale of 

Canned-goods, and hogs ! What a pleasure it would 

Be, if they could proudly lean back in their 

Mahogany seats and say, "Our fortunes 

Were inherited from a long line of 

Ancestors, old, so old, that all trace of 

The founders is lost in the dim twilight 

Of tradition." But, alas ; they cannot do 

This. The world seems unrulv, and refuses 



36 THE CONFESSIOXS 

To be moulded to the cast they prefer. 
It refuses to close its eyes on the 
Knowledge of things it possesses. 

Society 
Of to-day, forms a very favorable 
Comparison with a set of monkeys 
I once saw in a cage at a country 
Fair. They were clad in tinsel and finery. 
And their grimaces, their chattering and 
Their gambols highly amused the people 
Who came to see them, but what capped the 
Climax of the whole affair, was the air 
Of seriousness they affected, and 
Their magnificent exclusiveness. So 
Is it with society at large, but especially 
So with the Lake-Shore-Drive-Clan. Talk 
About your tinsel, your finery, your 
Exclusiveness, why here it is a virtue, 
But especially so, is it true of the 
Latter quality, and to be just, it should 
Be, for really no wise person would 
Care to enter cages devoted to 
Monkeys, and to inhale the stench that 
Proceeds therefrom. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 37 

I have touched on 
Society's trials and humiliations. 
I will now speak of its insanity. 
That it is insane, and that more sane 
People are in the asylums to-day, 
Than in the ranks of so-called Society, 
There can be no question whatever, for 
What sane person, or persons would dream of 
Giving a $10,000 dinner in honor of dogs, 
With the dogs eating from the same plates, while 
Ten thousand or more of the poor, were starving 
In the city? What sane person or persons 
Would dream of sending out a dog in a 
Brilliant equipage, for a morning constitutional 
Accompanied by a liveried coachman, 
And footman ? What sane person or persons 
Would dream of educating a monkey, 
To appear at social affairs, and what-nots ? 
But right here is where the worm turns, for the 
Monk appears before them as a reflection 
Or grinning caricature of themselves, 
Or in the role of the ape, aping the apes. 
What sane person, or persons, would make of 
American society circles the great 



38 THE CONFESSIONS 

Breeding grounds for the dissipated 

Wine-soaked, bankrupt-titled imbeciles 

Of Europe? Here American girls are 

Gowned, groomed, polished, and then sent abroad, to 

Enter the lists of the live-stock show, where 

Their points are carefully noted, by the 

Aforesaid imbeciles, and, being cattle 

Of quality, they are quoted at so much 

A head, but these little indignities pass 

By unnoticed, if they are only secured 

As a prize, and taken home to the titled 

Pens. Verily, sanity is a rarity 

In Society circles ! The asylums should 

Be emptied of their occupants, and 

Society sent there in a body to take 

Their places ! 

Arguments have been used ; 
Sermons have been preached, prayers have been 
Offered up, to wipe out the sins, and follies 
Of Society, but all to no purpose — 
Society has gone on more grimly 
Determined than ever, in the same old way, 
Therefore I, notwithstanding all the shafts 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 39 

Of sarcasm I have launched in its 
Midst, who really sympathize with society 
In all its sins, and difficulties, come 
Forth in the arena, to save it with the 
Only solution that exists for its difficulties, 
The only balm there is for aching hearts, 
The only light that can penetrate the 
Gloom — the New Faith, of the New Cities ! 
O, that it may accept me as its Saviour, 
And accept the New Faith of the New Cities, 
That shall make of earth a Paradise 
Till the trumpet of the angel shall 
Call us all to inhabit the celestial 
New Cities prepared for us, by the 
Father of the Universe! 

IX. 

One thing there 
Is that's true to me, and that's my woe. No 
Love or friendship in the world ere was strong 
As the love and friendship of my woe. We 
Two inseparable are. We two have 
Been companions for long, long years, and now 
As I go forth where life roams or rather 



4Q 



THE CONFESSIONS 



Dying Life, it follows me. On my way, 

I called in upon a dying man, and 

It was pitiful to see and hear how 

Much he feared Death. I knelt down at his 

Bedside, and hastened to inform him that 

Death was not to be feared, and that Life was 

To be feared a thousand times more than Death. 

But this he could not see. He was blind like 

The wise old world. He only shuddered and 

Bade me go. Once more in the cool air, I 

Wandered on — a hunted creature, mad with 

Life's misery ! Yes, and other hunted 

Creatures passed me by, "What is Life?" I faltered. 

"Yes, what is Life?" I walked slower now with 

Head bowed on my breast, and sobbed as if my 

Heart-strings would break in a thousand pieces 

And the pain within them would crush the world ! 

Yes! what is Life? Life is not merely the 

Beating of a heart within the walls of 

Clay — Life is the greatest lie, the greatest 

Curse that ever crept across the earth or 

Seas ! From the simplicity of its 

Original state, it is impossible 

To discover it, in the present damnable 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 41 

System, or in the hunted things that pass 

You by every hour. It is lost in the 

Wilderness, on the Desert, beneath the 

Shadows, and in the lies. Not a trace of 

It can be found to-day. That which we call 

Life is nothing but a mockery. The 

World has created this mockery, and 

Must perish with it, unless it accepts 

Me as its Saviour! I alone can 

Save it with the New Love, the New Faith, the 

New City, for this trinity will erect 

An impassable barrier between the 

Sexes, marriage shall cease at once, and the 

New Life begin in all its beauty, and . 

Its glory. Marriage is one of the greatest 

Shams of Life ! Why should the sexes marry? 

Why require an outlandish ceremony 

Over such a crime ? Those who wed stand 

Convicted the greatest criminals in 

The annals of crime ! Just pause a moment, 

Young man ! Just pause a moment, young maiden, 

When you dream of becoming united 

In wedlock, and think — seriously think 

Of the step you are about to take. Think 



42 THE CONFESSIONS 

Of the Life you have led from the cradle 

To the present — the terrible Life of 

Pain and woe, and ask yourself if you are 

Satisfied with it. Do you honestly 

Think Life in its present form is worth 

Living? Are you satisfied that your parents 

Did right in bringing you into the world ? 

Do you not curse the hour that you were born ? 

I do ! A thousand times I curse it every 

Day ! I wish that I had never seen the 

Light of day ! Do you think it right, after 

All that you have suffered, to bring innocent 

Children in the world to suffer as 

You have done ?. Just be present at the hour 

Of birth when some poor child is cast upon 

This world of woe, and list to the 

Pitiful scream that comes from its little 

Throat, and you will never wish to wed — 

That is — unless you want to be a 

Criminal ! Marriage is not a failure, 

Nor is it a Sacrament as the Church 

Of Rome would have us believe ; it is a crime ! 

It is all well and good for the happy 

Mother to love the offspring of her womb. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 43 

And all well and good for the happy 
Father, to go about boasting and treating 
In honor of the birth, but do either 
Of them know what they are doing? Can they 
Guarantee the peace of mind of that poor 
Child from the cradle to the grave? Can they 
Guarantee a path of roses for its 
Little feet, minus all the thorns? Can they 
Promise that it will never perish? Speak 
Age of shams ! Why bring up children 
In a world of woe, only to perish 
As caravans do perish on the Desert's 
Burning sands? But — yes, there is a reason 
For all births. There is a good, and all- 
Sufficient reason, why so many children 
Now roam upon the earth. I will trace it 
To its source — the untamed passions of the 
People ! These very passions 
Have brought us all into the world. 
From the peasant to the king ! Bear that in 
Mind and blush, ye hypocrites, who read 
These lines ! 

The present incumbent at the 
White House advocates the raising of large 



44 THE CONFESSIONS 

Families. Does he know what it means? He 

Fears a race suicide ! Ye Gods ! is not 

The suffering in the world great enough now. 

Without seeking to increase it, and that 

Too, at the expense, and satisfaction 

Of physical pleasure? If the 

Aforesaid incumbent believes in 

Such a thing, and gives it his support 

He should at least, try to discourage it, 

In the myriads he is supposed to rule. 

Ever ready to follow the initiative 

In such matters, the clergy of the 

City are urging the young men of 

Their parishes to get married. Evidently 

They are not satisfied with the misery 

In the world. They well know that marriage i: 

A sham, and a flimsy sham at that, to 

Clothe the passions in, but they are 

Determined to follow the lead of the nation's 

Executive. In the course of 

Their professional life, they hear many 

A tale of so-called secret deeds of shame, 

And they in their monkish philosophy, 

Think the best remedy to recommend 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Is marriage, which is nothing more, than 
A blessing on such deeds of shame. 
I rise to protest against such a creed! 
There is no such thing as immorality 
In the world. I can see none. It is a 
Hoax created by the false world, and must 
Be destroyed. The body, to me, is a 
Sacred thing — the body of the male, and 
The body of the female. I can see 
Nothing immoral about them, but alas ! 
They were made for the tangled web of woe ! 
It is really amusing to note how 
The blood mantles the cheeks of a woman, 
When she speaks of a girl's "limbs," never 
Legs, as if they were something shocking. I 
Presume she would have us understand that 
Girls walk on stilts, and that no such 
Profane thing as legs exist in the feminine 
Gender. Another thing that shocks the 
So-called virtuous, and shams, are the 
Courtesans! With what holy horror they 
Raise their hands in air, and speak of these 
Poor creatures, as if they were numbered 
'Mongst the damned. Right here I rise to 



45 



4 6 THE CONFESSIONS 

Destroy the name they bear, for in the whole 
Wide world there is not one courtesan, let 
The false world say what it will. These girls were 
Created against their wills, and took up 
Their employment, same as each of us have 
Taken up ours. If they were not created 
Against their wills, they would not now be 
What the world terms courtesans. They are 
Exactly what they were created for. 
We are all exactly what we were created 
For. Our course is determined from the 
Cradle to the grave, and cannot be altered 
One iota. As well try to turn back the 
Tides. As well try to destroy the seasons. 
As well try to stamp out disease. As well 
Try to arrest the lightning. When speaking 
Of courtesans do not question their 
Employment. Do not sneer at it. Rather 
Question the authors of their birth — which is 
The root of all evil ! 

"But," says one, "if 
We kill off the race, affection too will 
Die." Affection ! yes, affection would be 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 47 

The dearest thing on earth, if it brought no 
Pain. "And," she continued, "children are such 
A comfort." I took her hand in mine, and 
Softly said, "Yes, to you. But how about 
The children? Where is their comfort to come 
From?" Speak! age of shams! shall this 
Forever be? At the gates of my 
New Cities, marriage shall cease at once, 
And then shall follow the short watch — 
To welcome the most beautiful thing of 
Life—Death. 

X. 

Come, follow me, ye who would know 
What Life really is ; follow me across 
The burning sands of the Desert, through the 
Dark Shadows, and the Wilderness. 

The Dawn ! 
What was it ? What is it ? Naught but a curse — 
Obscured by clouds of Bible lore, and 
Hopelessly disfigured by the so-called 
Students of theological Rome. Of 
All the races that have trod this earth, with 



48 THE CONFESSIONS 

All their hopes, and joys, and woes, not one has 
Solved the riddle of its age, or being, 
But the present age, through me shall have its 
Riddle solved, for I have come to save it. 
All the thoughts, deeds, books and orations of 
The past and present, have not thrown one 
Ray of light on the Sphinx-like question of 
Our being. It is naught but a record 
Of births and deaths, of coming and going. 
Of day and night, and incessant hum 
And jar. We vainly grasp for facts, but grasp 
At sunbeams that we cannot hold. Is it 
Not a crying shame that this should ever 
Be? Is not our woe heavy enough now, 
That the world should perish to see it 
Nevermore ! Our Roman theologists, 
With their ever ready cunning, have 
Actually dared to answer the question 
Of our being. According to their 
Electrotyped ideas, we were born to 
Love, honor, and obey the Lord of 
Heaven, in order that we might enjoy 
The kingdom he has prepared for us. But 
I deny this cursed doctrine ! I sav 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 49 

That we were born for misery, crime, and 

Destruction. Why do they not tell us this? 

Furthermore we were born from the passions 

Of the sexes. We should not be held accountable 

For our being. We never asked to be 

Brought into this damnable world of woe. 

What ! according to the Roman teachings, 

We were born from the lowest brute passions 

Of the sexes, to love, honor, and obey 

A God of whom we knew and know 

Absolutely nothing? What! and if we 

Fail in this, we are to be burned in 

Everlasting fire ? What ! burned forever. 

And forever ! No end at all ! What ! would 

Not the great God relent in one hundred, 

One thousand, or ten thousand years? Would not 

That be long enough to suffer for the crimes 

We were brought into the world to commit? We 

May as well get down to common-sense on 

This question. The Argus eye of the Lord 

Flashes from the cradle to the grave. He 

Knows at the birth of a child what its end 

Will be. He knows ! He knows ! He knows ! Will 

He then condemn it to everlasting 



5 o THE CONFESSIONS 

Punishment, for some infraction of the 

Law, while he, surrounded by his angels. 

Enjoys the Happiness of Paradise? 

He knows ! He knows ! And when he knows at 

The hour of birth, what the trials and end 

Of a creature will be, why does he allow 

That creature to be created ? Has not 

The farce of Life been played long enough ? 

What sane idea can the world advance. 

To allow it a further lease of Life? 

We have the right to ask why we are here. 

The birds of carrion, the students of 

Rank theology, can arise, and flap their 

Wings and scream "Blasphemy !" from the belfries, 

For all I care. I too could scream "Blasphemy!"' 

At their horrid doctrines, but as I have 

Come to save them, as well as all the world, 

I shall keep my counsel. 

All old ideas. 
All history, all ties held dear to the 
Human heart, must be cast aside, 
By those who follow me, for I am the 
Singer of the Dawn ! Shadows, nightmares, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 51 

And all their close relations will fade away 
At my approach! The old idea of 
"The Lord is good to us; he has given 
Us rivers, lakes, and oceans ; he has given 
Us fish, and meat, and wheat and fruit 
To eat, and water to drink," must be 
Discarded at once. Fancy the world 
Living without food to eat, and water 
To drink. It would perish at once. This is 
Just what it should have done long ages 
Ago. But O, no ! this would never do ! 
We would then have escaped our woe and 
Such pleasure of course must not be 
Denied us. But tremble not poor wanderers 
On the burning sands of the Desert, I 
Will save you yet. Cast away your family 
Traditions and Bibles, and follow me, 
For they will avail you not in my 
New Cities. 

XI. 
Fear life, I say. Fear it 
More than a thousand deaths. I fear life, 
But would welcome Death, for Death, at least 



52 THE CONFESSIONS 

Has mercy in its eyes, and terminates 

All earthly misery. What comes after, 

Matters little, matters not. We are not 

To concern ourselves about it. I know 

Life in all its terrible bitterness, 

But Death, ah ! let it come ! Just "a little 

Folding of the hands," just a little lowering 

In the narrow house, and that is all. Can 

Anything more peaceful or beautiful 

Be dreamt of? Many, and many were the 

Beautiful talks I have had with Death. But 

Yesterday we walked forth where Life held sway, 

Death and I. She is the sweetheart that I 

Dearly love. Beneath the cloudless summer 

Skies we walked, Death and I, two happy 

Lovers without a care on earth. We were 

On the sandy shores of my own Western 

Sea, and listened to the sobbing of the 

Waves. W r hat happiness was mine ! I begged 

Iler for her love. I cast myself down at 

Her feet. Bitterly I wrung my hands, and 

Wept until I thought my heart would break, but 

She softly said: "Not yet! I cannot grant 

The love you ask. You must drink ! drink deep 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Of the bitter cup ! Drink your portion, then 
Come to me." And she left me sobbing like 
The sad waves of the sea. 

I went forth into 
The burning sands of the Desert, and travelled 
There for years. I saw the caravans wind 
Slowly on to distant points, while birds of 
Carrion ever floated o'er them, waiting 
For their prey. I saw them come and go, and 
Come and go, and murmured, "Whither do 
They come, and whither go? Shall the weary, 
Tear-stained procession never stop ?" To them, 
Sweet blue-eyed babes were born, to live, grow up, 
And travel o'er the sands they trod, to brave 
The noonday heat, and fury of the 
Simoon, till they in turn, should raise their 
Children to travel o'er the very sands 
They perished in. And so the weary 
Caravans move on. They tell sweet love-tales 
Beneath the swaying palms. They halt for 
Refreshments at the oasis ; then take up 
The weary march again, to go astray 
Within the labyrinth of mirage, or perish 



53 



54 THE CONFESSIONS 

'Neath the noon-day heat, or in the jaws of 
The wolf-like Simoon. 

Fainting, weary, 
Footsore, once more I came to Death, and begged 
Her for her love, and once more she told me 
To drink deep of the cup — to drain the bitter 
Dregs, and then her wealth of love would all be 
Mine. She looked so beautiful, I could not 
Leave her side. I begged her to 
Remain. She gazed in pity on me, then 
Granted my request. At this moment she 
Seemed to have robbed all the beautiful 
Women, of all the world, of all their beauty, 
And adorned herself with it. And this 
Beauty almost overpowered my senses ! 
How I longed for the love she would not give ! 
If worlds were mine, I'd gladly lay them at 
Her feet for it. No one but I could know 
The beauty of being in love with Death. 
Everyone fears Death, which proves that wisdom 
Is not with them. I threw myself down at 
Her feet. I buried my face in her lap, 
I felt her warm hands on my burning cheek ! 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 55 

I was thrilled with the electric waves 

Of love. Tears came — K:ame in floods — tears of 

Joy, from the warped fountains of my woe. 

Was this to be the end of the agony? 

Was this the end of all my woe? "I madly 

Love you," I hotly cried. "I love you more 

Than angels ever loved their God ! More than 

Flowers do love the sun and dew ; nay, 

More than all the lovers ever loved their 

Loves on this brown earth !" A silence followed, 

A bitter one. I did not dare to stir. 

"And why do you love me?" She asked at length. 

"Because," I said, "I want you for my bride, 

My peerless bride !" She gently lifted up 

My face with her two hands, and looked me 

In the eyes. That look thrilled my soul with 

The wonderful melodies of Paradise. 

"You are the first," said she, "who ever spoke 

That way to me. I assure you, it is 

A pleasure to hear it. I have never had 

A lover before you. All that is written 

Of me, is done with pens of terror. All 

That is said of me, is done with quaking 

Voices. The beautiful cities I own, 



56 THE CONFESSIONS 

Are paved with the tears of broken hearts. 
The world shuns me. The world frowns down 
Upon me — " 

"But," I cried, interrupting 
Her, "it shall do so no longer. The world 
Will passionately love you vet. It will 
Cast aside all else for you, even as 
1 now do. First comes the Saviour, then the Disciples. 

"So," she asked, "you really 
Want to marry me?" 

"I do !" was the reply 
That came from out my heart. 

"But," said 
She, "the world will never approve of it." 
"I don't care," I returned, "what the world 
Approves of. You are my world !" A silvery 
Laugh greeted my impassioned words. "Really," 
Said she, "this is charming, you would lead 
Me to the altar, and have the priest — " 

I 
Raised my hand in protest. "Not for worlds !" 
I cried, "would I require the service of 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 57 

The priest. That would not be marriage. It 
Is not marriage. It is a cursed lie, 
Formed by the customs of cursed society. 
Marriage is love, and love is marriage, and 
No words uttered by priest, minister, or 
Justice can bind it firmer. Neither can 
The croakings of sham virtue make it 
Otherwise. I am madly in love with you." 
"I know you are," she softly murmured. 

"And," 
Said I, "All I ask in return is for 
You to love me. That will be marriage in 
Its truest significance !" 

"But," she replied, 
"What would the world think of such a thing?" 
"I care not," I said, "What the world would 
Think. The world is stupid. The world is a 
Damnable sham. Sham is its greatest 
Stock in trade. In fact, sham is considered 
A virtue by the world. How then would you 
Expect me to care for an opinion, 
Coming from such a source ? I love you ! I 
Madly love you ! That's all I care for or 



5 8 THE CONFESSIONS 

Think of as the hours glide by." She leaned 
Forward, and said, "tell me, how madly you 
Love me." 

I replied, "I love you so madly, 
That I'd dearly love to crawl in abject 
Slavery at your feet forevermore ; so 
.Madly that the world with all its vice and 
Crime, seems filled with flowers and summertime 
So madly that my heart and soul seem filled 
With the enchanted glories of Eden ; 
So madly that my body seems enveloped 
In the web of melodies the angels made for 
Heavenly ears ; so madly that when I 
Think of you, I am drowned with the oceans 
Of sweetness the thought brings ; so madly, 
That the sylvan warblers of the world seem 
Living in my heart ; so madly that though 
You would forsake me for another, I 
Still would love you to the end." 

"That is true 
Love," she said, with a burst of silvery laughter. 
"Surely, you don't love me that much." 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

"O, much 
More," I wailed. "Could I but translate the love 
I bear you, into words, you would then 
Understand its truest meaning. As it 
Is — words fail me." 

''Yes/' she agreed, "you 
Madly love me. I believe what you say, 
But, how long would this love last?" 

"Forevermore !" 
I cried with intense fervor, and buried my 
Head once more in her lap. A storm of tears 
Burst from my eyes. I cannot express in 
Words, the delicious feelings that ran riot 
In my viens at this moment, but I was 
Happy ; happy ; happy ; — 'but alas ! only 
For the moment ; then it faded away. 
But its memories will ever remain 
Engraved upon the tablets of my mind. 
"I madly love you," once more I faltered. 
"When can I hope that you will live with me?" 
She moved uneasily in her seat. "Why," said 
She, "we are not even engaged, and we 
Would necessarily have to be married 
Before we could live together." 



59 



6o THE CONFESSIONS 

"Not at all!" 
I cried. "Marriage is only a sham, an 
Empty ceremony performed over 
That sacred thing, 'LOVE.' I hate the word 
'Marriage.' Marriage, to my mind, is a very 
Simple thing. It merely consists of 
Placing my hand in your hand, and a 
Promise to love you forever, and forever, 
And a placing of your hand in my hand, 
And a promise to love me forever and 
Forever." 

She smiled, and said, "Really 
Marriage to you is a sort of jest." 

I 

Replied, "On the contrary, I think it 
Is the most solemn, sacred thing in all 
The world, but I detest the cloak of sham 
Forever thrown over it." 

"You are 
Brutal in your remarks," said she. "You 
Are an Iconoclast. You seek to destroy 
Institutions," 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 6l 

"Not at all," was my 
Protest. "My only hope is to see 
Truth triumph over Ignorance. Marriages 
Of to-day are detestable. I could never 
Love a girl who would come to me, and 
Solemnly declare she had no faults, that 
She was spotless as the Virgin of Heaven ; 
That she never loved another till she 
Met me, and that she never kissed another's 
Lips but mine." 

"Why," exclaimed Death in 
Surprise, "what would you have her to say?" 
I replied, "Just what I would say to the 
One I loved. You, little sweetheart. With my 
Arms around your waist, I'd say, I love 
You with all the strength of love within my 
Heart and soul, and will love you so until 
The end. Passionately I have loved others 
Before I met you ; passionately I 
Have kissed them, and twined my arms 
Around their waists. I am not spotless ! 
My morals are not good according to 
The wisdom of the world. My faults are 
Countless as the sands in the Desert, as 



62 THE CONFESSIONS 

The stars in the sky. I have broken 

Every commandment but one — "Thou shalt not 

Kill !" but I love you, and want you for 

My own." 

She looked at me strangely. "You are 
Horribly honest about it," was her opinion. 
Holding her two hands in mine, I replied : 
"No one in all the world is more deadly 
Honest on this subject than I." She stroked 
The hair back from my fevered brow. O, what 
Thrills of delight darted through my brain 
And heart, at the touch. Would that I could 
Have died there at her feet, the bliss was so 
Supreme. "John Allen," said she, "deeply do 
I sympathize with you in all your woe. 
Life indeed must be a dreadful thing for 
You." Once more the hand stroked the hair 
Back from my brow, and once more the thrills 
Of delight flashed back and forth through heart 
And brain. "Deeply do I sympathize with 
You," she murmured once again, but I 
Could not reply for the tears were flowing 
From my eyes. She continued, "And you 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 63 

Think you could be happy with me? Why, 
Your happiness would only bring you pain." 
"Yes," I said, ''the dear sweet pain that I'd 
Gladly suiter all for you. That is true 
Love. Though the herd would leave you all 
Alone ; though storms should rage around you ; 
Though every hope I had in you was 
Shipwrecked; though another should enjoy 
Your charms ; though you'd persecute me till 
The blood would flow ; though disease would 
Steal away your beauty and your youth ; 
Though you'd spurn me as the vilest thing on 
Earth ; though the world would call you false 
As hell itself, I'd love you, and adore 
You with all the passion that I felt for 
You, when first we met as lovers beneath 
The sweet blue skies." I could go no 
Further. Tears were in my voice, and I 
Did not dare to raise my eyes to hers. O, 
The feelings of alternate hope and woe, 
That flashed throughout my heart ! She answered 
Not. I trembled lest she'd turn me from her 
Side, my Paradise, and I'd be in 
The deadly grasp of woe again. 



64 THE CONFESSIONS 

She said. 
"You have conceived a terrible passion 
For me, and I cannot understand it." 
"Oh," I returned, "you would understand it 
Well, if you but knew how much I wanted 
To escape my woe. It haunts me in my 
Dreams ; it is present in the morn when I 
Arise ; it dogs my footsteps all the day. 
There is no peace from it at all. I start 
Out in the morning with resolutions 
Bright ; I have hopes most brilliant for the day 
There are some things I want to do, but alas ! 
Before the noonday heat arrives, I'm in 
The throes of my dread woe, and all my 
Resolutions, hopes, and thoughts are 
Helplessly shipwrecked. I am lonesome. 
1 am weary. That's why I want you for 
My bride. That's why I cast myself down 
At your feet." Long, long, I remained thus. 
I did not dare to raise my eyes. The waves 
Of the sea were moaning on the sandy 
Beach, and the sea-gulls were wildly 
Screaming. All the bitterness of life was 
With me now. 1 lifted up my eyes to 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 6$ 

Search for some look of pity on her face, 
But she had vanished. And the sea-gulls 
Screamed, and the surf moaned on the sands, 
And I — I too moaned on the bitter, barren 
Sands of life. 



THE STORM. 

TT IS night. The storm raged without with 

Unparalleled fury, but not greater 
Than the storm within my heart. Let it rage, 
For I well know that I must perish in 
It. No sunshine, no cloudless days for me. 
Naught but the thunders' awful crash, the 
Lightning flash, and bitter rains. In the storm, 
All things are filled with fear. The trees then bow 
Their green heads low. The birds seek shelter in 
Their nests. Ships struggle in the sea. The 
Bitter winds moan o'er the streets and prairies. 
And people walk along with bowed-down heads, 
And aching hearts, but the storm for them lasts 
Not forever ; the clouds soon clear away, 
And the beauty of star, and moon, and sun 
Shine down on them again, but alas ! the 



66 THE CONFESSIONS 

Storm for me is everlasting. Why, J 

Cannot saw 1 am unlike all other men. 

I am the strangest creature that ever lived 

In this damned world of woe. I cannot sec 

All things like others. I cannot feel like 

Others. J live apart from everything. 

Life to me is a dreadful thing. It is 

A curse ! Towering science, and keen-eyed 

Logic cannot answer questions that I 

Ask. They speak in mysteries, and nothing 

More. Nowhere can I find the key to 

L'nlock the doors. I can only beat my 

Mead against a wall of adamant! I 

Can only wander wailing up and down 

The road. I can only build the bridges 

Frail that break beneath my feet. This, 

And nothing more. This, all this, I felt in 

The storm — yes, in the storm. And the storm to 

Me is as everlasting as the hills! 

The thunder roared, and reverberated 

< I'er the roof-tops of the city. The rain 

Came down in torrents, and the winds blew with 

The fury of the hurricane, through all 

The streets, making it almost impossible 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 67 

To walk ! Through the rain-swept windows, the lights 

Shone dim, and fear was in the air and 

Everywhere. How I longed for beautiful 

Death in the storm ! How I prayed for the end 

Of the agony ! "Come to me ! Come to 

Me now, O beautiful Death," I implored. 

"Come while the bitter winds blow through my heart 

And soul ! Come while the tempest rages round 

Me, and let me perish on thy breasts of 

Beauty !" I walked on, and soon found myself 

On the Madison Street bridge. I saw its 

Colored lights faintly gleaming through the rainy 

Curtains of the storm. I rested my arms 

Upon the rail, and looked down at the swiftly 

Flowing river. Long, long I looked upon 

It. I was fascinated with it. "Were I 

Not a coward," I murmured o'er and o'er, 

"Were I not a coward." And the thunders 

Roared, and the lightning flashed, and the rain came 

Down in blinding sheets, but I stirred not. "Were 

I not a coward," I said again, in a 

Hollow voice. The wind swept by, and moaned, and 

A voice from the distant ages seemed borne 

Along by it. "John Allen," said it, "thousands 



68 THE CONFESSIONS 

Who were not cowards, cast off the chains of woe 
That bound them here on Earth and sought relief 
In a watery grave, and why not you?" 

"Yes," 
I murmured, "and why not I? Simply 
Because I am a coward. But last night, 
A woman young and beautiful, leaped from 
The bridge into the waters far below — ■ 
Twas but a plunge — a splash of water — a 
Human arrow in the armor of the 
Deep — a human arrow in the bosom 
Of sweet Death, and all was over. How 
Beautiful ! How sublime ! No trace of the 
Coward lurked in her heart. God bless her, and 
God bless the thousands who have ended all 
Their woes in death ! A thousand blessings be 
On all the suicides ! To me they are 
Not suicides. They are heroes, and 
Heroines !" 

The winds moaned, "There is peace, there 
Is rest in the beautiful grave below. 
All you need is courage for the step. Just 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 69 

A leap in the dark, and O, then all is 
Over — all the agonies you now suffer." 

"Yes," I murmured. "J ust a ^ ea P m tne dark, 
And then — ah, then — " I was fascinated 
With the idea. My eyes were riveted 
On the madly flowing river. I crouched 
Low, like a wounded panther, ready to 
Leap like an avalanche upon its prey — 
But my courage forsook me, and I leaned 
My arms heavily on the rail again. 
"Coward that I am !" I hoarsely cried, "I 
Cannot bring myself to it — to Rest ! I 
Need some one to lead me on ! Yes, 
And there's one that could do it, too. Ah ! her 
Face ! her face divine, her form of beauty 
Come before me now ! I humbly bow my 
Head before the vision, for I dare not 
Raise my eyes to her — my first, my only, 
And alas ! my hopeless love. She could lead 
Me to the brink. Blindly would I follow 
Her, and at her bidding blindly would I 
Leap to death, with a smile upon my lips ! 



yo THE CONFESSIONS 

When I read of the beautiful suicides — 

Of the man found dead in the bath-room — «the 

Pallor on his face, the zigzag pool of 

Blood flowing from his temple, and the tell-tale 

Revolver near at hand ; of the maiden 

Young and fair, who ended all her woes with 

Poison ; of the man of thirty-five or 

Forty, found dead with a dagger in his 

Heart, I am filled with mingled feelings of 

Admiration and despair ! Admiration 

For their courage. Despair at my base 

Cowardice. Deeply do I love, and worship 

All the heroes of suicide ! The false 

World should not frown down on them, for what else 

Is left for a tortured heart, a life of 

Woe, a hopeless love ? Speak ! age of shams ! What 

Else? Some tell me I should not think thus: that 

1 should love Life, and walk with it beneath 

The cloudless summer skies. Yes, walk 'neath 

Cloudless summer skies — 'twere well if I could 

Follow such advice, but whether 'neath the 

Cloudless summer skies, or otherwise, the 

Storm is with me always — d cannot rid 

Mvself of it. Once more 1 looked down at 



OF JOHN ALLEN. ; x 

The madly flowing river, and once more 
I murmured, "Were I not a coward," and 
Then — ! I wandered down the street, with head bowed 
On my breast. And the winds moaned, "Were you not 
A coward? Think! fool! think! Just a leap in 
The dark, and all would be over !'' And the 
Rains fell, and the thunders roared, and the storm 
Increased with the night. And the storm is with 
Me always. 



I CONFESS. 

AX^ISE old world, pray give me your 

Attention for a moment. I entertain 
Nothing but the utmost contempt for you. 
Which is not silent contempt, you will 
Observe, for I would claim your attention. 
To launch a few shafts of sarcasm in 
The rotten timbre of your wisdom. 

I have 
Made many confessions, and I still hope 
To make many more, but of all the 
Confessions I have made, and those which 



72 THE CONFESSIONS 

I hope to make, the following ones are 
Those which have claimed my attention, from 
First to last ; which have haunted me day 
And night, and gave me no rest. They are 
Yours. Please accept the gift, and open your ears. 

I Confess — 

That I am filled with profound disgust, 
When I read of resignations being 
Accepted by those who ordered them. 

I Confess — 

That I am filled with admiration 

For the Job-like patience manifested 

By our English language, in the face 

Of the yearly assaults made upon it 

By colleges that persist in calling 

Their closing exercises "Commencement." 

I Confess — 

That my sense of humor knows no 
Bounds, when I run across a member of 
The masculine gender, carrying a 
Female voice in stock. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. ; 3 

I Confess — 

That I would rather enter the chamber 
Of horrors than sample the wonderful 
Mysteries contained in the sausage. 

I Confess — 

That I mistook the picture of a group 
Of graduates, for a battalion of 
Undertakers holding a pow-wow. 

I Confess — 

That I begin to lose confidence in 
Humanity, when I hear the milk-man 
Blandly declare, that his stock is not watered. 

I Confess — • 

That the servant-girl has the best of 

The situation to-day. In short, she is "it." 

I Confess — 

That I feel like constituting myself 
A court of chastisement, whenever I 
Have the misfortune to converse with a 
Mar. who wears the proverb habit. 



7 4 THE CONFESSIONS 



I Confess — 

That I entertain nothing but profound 

Contempt, for those who make a 

Brass band display of the charities they bestow. 

I Confess — « 

That I am filled with merriment at 
The thought that the Armours, the Goulds. 
The Potter Palmers, the Rockefellers, and several 
Others of their ilk, are only laying by a few- 
Dollars for a rainy day, and not for a Deluge. 

I Confess — 

That all the fish stories of the past 

And present, appear somewhat scaly to me. 

I Confess — 

That I never entertained very high opinions 
Of the faculty of imagination, until after 
I came in contact with railroad and 
Summer-resort literature. 

I Confess — ■ 

That 1 am at a loss to understand 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 75 

Why the officers of the law allow such polite 
Robbers as "Fortune-Tellers" to remain in 
Perfect security, outside the prison walls. 

I Confess — 

That I am at a loss to understand 

Why our comic writers (?) still present 

The public with the same old jokes 

That Noah smiled at in his boyhood days. 

I Confess — 

That I have not the slightest respect for 

Schools, or the teachers who preside over them. 

I Confess — 

That I fail to understand, why critics 

Call the rhymes of Kipling, and Markham, 

Poetry. 

I Confess — 

That I am filled with disgust, when I 
Behold an American citizen wearing a 
Shining silk hat. 



76 THE CONFESSIONS 

I Confess — 

That I am more than amused when I 
Behold Cholly and Fweddy, hawwibly 
Dissipating on weak lemonade. 

I Confess — 

That "distance lends enchantment," when I 
Meet a friend enjoying one of those 
Fragrant three-for-five stogies. 

I Confess — ■ 

That I have sifted it from head to 
Foot, and find that it really costs a 
Poor man more than he can afford — 
To die. 

I Confess — 

Whether awake, or asleep, or galloping 
Beneath the stars on my panting steed. 
That I am ever thinking of my 
Cherished cities, and my strong and 
Beautiful lovers. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. yy 

I Confess — « 

That I often ask myself, "What is the 

Matter with the American public?" 

When I behold it parting with its 

Hard earned money, to hear the bushy-headed 

Paderewski deliver a death-blow to 

Harmony on the piano. 

I Confess — 

That the ups and downs of married life 

Never appear to better advantage, than 

When I see a six-foot woman walking 

Up the street, with a five-foot husband in tow. 

I Confess — 

That I have no respect whatever for 

A self-made man ( ?), a smart young man ( ?), 

Or a man who has made his mark ( ?). 

I Confess — 

That I have nothing but the utmost 
Contempt, for that national, and damnable 
Lie, known as "the survival of the fittest. " 



78 THE CONFESSIONS 



I Confess — 

That Death is one of the most beautiful 
Things I have ever read or heard of 
In this Life. 

I Confess — 

That I have as much use for the good 
Things that are said of a dead man, as 
The Devil has for "Holy Water." 

I Confess — • 

That I am the strangest character that 
Ever walked upon this cursed Earth, and 
That no man will ever understand me 
Rightly, or enjoy my conversation or 
Companionship, unless he takes off his 
Mask, and treats me as his equal. 

I Confess — 

That the announcements in the daily papers, 
Concerning extravagant banquets, and 
Imported costumes worn by social butterflies, 
Are splendid remedies for hungry stomachs. 
And people in rags. 



OF JOHN ALLEX. 

I Confess — • 

That no array of arguments will ever 

Move me to forgive a smiling, smooth flatterer. 

Or a man who forms a hasty 

Judgment of me. 

I Confess — • 

That the place to obtain injustice, is 

In the Justice-Shops of the city. 

I Confess — 

That the luckiest man in all the world. 

Is he who ne'r was born. 

I Confess — 

That there are some men so degraded. 

That they are exalted to the Seventh Heaven, 

Whenever they can humiliate you. 

I Confess — 

That I have the utmost contempt 

For the man who has smiles for some. 

And frowns for others ; for the man 

Whose dignity will not permit him 



79 



So THE CONFESSIONS 

To recognize you, when he sees you 
On the street ; for the man who wears 
Medals, and has diplomas in his 
Possession ; for the man who rides in 
A carriage, cab, or automobile ; for the 
Man who erects statues to preserve the 
Memories of so-called heroes and what-nots ; 
For the man who is always employed in 
Building air castles, and living in them ; 
For the man who has not the courage 
To face ingratitude ; and for the man 
Who is not democratic enough to meet 
All men on a common level. 

I Confess — > 

That I am more than amused, when some 

Men, after looking me over, go their way, thinking 

They have taken my measure. 

I Confess — 

That I sympathize with the rich man, 
Who has to die, after all, and leave all 
His wealth behind, for others to spend. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 8 1 



I Confess — 

Whenever I see two able-bodied 

Italians, popularly known as "dagos," 

Equipped with a horse, wagon, and 

Hand-organ, that I am at a loss 

To understand why they are not 

Arrested for vagrancy. 

I Confess — 

That honesty is the best of policy, 

After all, and that the place to find 

It, is in the United States Senate, 

In the aldermanic sessions of every city. 

And in the advertised food-stuffs of 

The day. 

I Confess — 

That I have more respect for the 

Man who breaks all the Commandments 

In full view of the public eye, than 

For he who does the same in 

Secrecy, and poses as a Saint. 



82 THE CONFESSIONS 

I Confess — 

That I cannot understand why 

The Government persists in employing 

Hysterical, brainless, fad-stricken 

Females to teach (God save the mark!) 

The children of the country, when men 

Of brains and family can be 

Had for the asking, to do the same work. 

1 Confess — 

That I can see through the screen at 
Last — that laws were made to protect 
The rich transgressors, and to punish 
The poor ones. 

I Confess — 

That money is the one great power 

That wields its sceptre over the whole 

World. Its will is absolute. Before 

It, all bow low. For it, how 

Many lives have been wrecked ; 

How many have toiled, but 

Toiled in vain ; how much 

Honor has been purchased ; 



OF JOHX ALLEX. 83 

How many assassins have been 

Hired ; how many officials 

Have been corrupted, and how 

Many American girls have purchased 

The empty crowns and titles of Europe. 

Without it, a man is like a ship 

Without a pilot. Without it, you 

May as well seek the potter's field, 

But this I say to you 

Wise old world, that money shall 

Lose all its power at the very 

Gates of my New City ; for it 

Will not be accepted for any service 

Done, nor for any commodity 

Within the sacred walls. Once 

More I beg your attention for these 

Confessions. They are yours. Please 

Accept the gift. 

ART AND LIFE. 

T WENT to-day to the Art Institute, 

And when I unto my home returned, the 
Despair that always rages in my soul^ 



84 THE CONFESSIOXS 

Almost o'erwhelmed me, for my love, the love 

I gave so freely there — was cast aside — 

Was shattered and the fragments rudely 

Trampled on by the heedless feet, of the 

Heedless throng. I saw them pass, the ones I 

Madly loved, the rich, the gay, the poor, the 

Humble, but alas ; they had no eyes, no 

Ears, no hearts, no love for me. These like serfs 

Were lying at the feet of chiseled and 

Of painted lies. How I longed in my despair 

For their deep sympathy, and love ! But this 

As always is the rule, was brutally 

Denied me. Nowhere can I win out! I 

Seem to be at war with all mankind, and 

In harmony with nothing in this wise 

Old world, because I can attract no one ; 

Because I do repel ; because I possess 

Not the polished manners that the Piker 

Uses in society ; because my 

Heart is filled with love for all mankind ; 

Because it hungers in return for all 

The love it gives ; and because my soul is 

Filled with a despair, the like of which did 

Never yet exist in this wise world, when 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 85 

I behold the idiotic indifference, 
The damnable contempt displayed by my 
Own people, when in presence of the 
Painted, and the chisled lies, of painters 
And of sculptors. 

What are painters, what are 
Sculptors? Artists? No, they are but one set 
Of the myriad bandits, who steal from life's 
Great treasury — Time, and leave it almost 
Penniless. They liars are, who paint and 
Chisel lies ; show artists too, who flatter 
Well, amuse, and then astonish the 
Bewildered sight. They are kindergarten 
Manufacturers, who turn out dolls, and 
Pictures for the children. Unhappily 
In this case we the children are — the 
Children overgrown, who still do clap our 
Hands, and cry aloud, "O see the pretty 
Pictures and the dolls." We must be amused. 
We must live in an atmosphere unreal. 
We must diverge from pathways true to life. 
We must have landscape, seascape; birds in trees; 
Spires of churches ; court-house towers ; scenes of 



86 THE CONFESSIONS 

City or country ; skies of blue, of 
Glittering stars ; of turquoise rare ; gorgeous 
Sunsets ; moonlight scenes on rivers, lakes 
And oceans, all recorded for our 
Benefit, on canvas or on stone. 

These 
Scenes of course we never see about us. 
Landscapes, and seascapes, arc nowhere to be 
Found, nor the scenes of our real life, so 
Beautiful, that nothing in the so-called 
Arts compare with them. These are cast aside, 
Unworthy of a thought or look, but — 
Record them once on canvas, or on stone, 
And behold what admiring crowds, 
Will gather round them. Then come the unreal 
Pictures — they of fabled heroes ; of 
Two-headed monsters; of scenes and characters 
In fairyland ; of the crusades ; of 
Mermaids rising from the sea; of horrid 
Buddhist Deities ; of Bible characters ; 
Of murders found in history ; of 
Battles great upon the land and sea; 
Of Hell with all its torments, and of 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 87 

Heaven with its joys. These are painted lies, 

For the artists, they who made them, knew 

Nothing- more than you or I about these 

Subjects; they drew on their imaginations 

For materials, and the moment they 

Did that, the foundations of the lies were laid. 

Do you think you were created here to 

Squander precious moments on these — lies? 

Do you think you were created, just to 

Read accounts both long and short, of artists 

And of sculptors ; of pictures and of 

Statues, by so-called critics of the art? 

Do you think you were created just to 

Listen to long lectures on the art? 

Do you think, one moment think that you should 

Join that throng, that still applauds the artists 

And the sculptors of the past and present? 

Do you think because society, and 

Certain circles in the world pretend to 

Knowledge of the art, and attend its 

Exhibitions, that you too must cultivate 

Pretensions similar, and attend such 

Exhibitions ? 



88 THE CONFESSIONS 

Suppose that I had 
Painted pictures full of beauty — they the 
Greatest of all time, what would it be to 
You? Would it help you solve the problems of 
This life? What would it profit you to point 
Me out a man of art, the greatest of 
Your time? It would simply prove that I 
Had cast a thought on canvas, for you to 
Approve or disapprove ; it should be the 
Latter, for I have disapproved of all 
The art of past and present, and if you 
Follow me, you too must disapprove of 
All the art of past and present. Art ! 
What is art? I know not art as the world 
Classifies it. Art, true Art, is yourself. 
You are the painter, you the sculptor, not 
The man with brush and chisel in hand. I 
Swear to you from the very depths of the 
Agony that rages in my heart, that 
This is the Truth ! Anytime you doubt 
My word, go forth into the golden 
Sunshine, or out in the dark storm-shadows, 
And look at all the scenes about you — look 
At them with just one-half the attention — 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 89 

One -half the sympathy you bestow on 
Worthless paintings, and in that moment, 
You will become the greatest painter, and 
Sculptor of them all. In that moment you 
Will have recorded in the art galleries 
Of your vision, scenes far more beautiful, 
Than Raphael, Correggio, Vandvck, 
Rubens, and all the other countless 
Artists, have ever recorded on canvas. 
And what a realness there is in Nature's 
Scenes ! So real, that they startle you — that 
Is if you have any eyes at all for 
Majesty and beauty. Then why waste your 
Time on the man with the brush. Surely 
Your interest does not centre in the 
Picture that he paints ? It must centre 
In his skill as the Artist of the hour, 
For with your own two eyes, you must have 
Gazed on the real scenes of Nature, which he 
Transfers to canvas; and O, how 
Immeasurably more grand they seem 
Alongside his daubing! How beggarly! 
How wretched appear the paintings of the 
Greatest artists in comparison with 



90 



THE CONFESSIONS 



The majesty of Nature! His skill then, 
Is the only thing to attract you, and this 
Indeed is a worthless accomplishment — 
A woeful waste of the most precious thing 
In the world — Time. Pictures should be 
Painted only for the blind ! 

Perhaps in 
This matter you will say, I am a bit 
Severe on you. Perhaps I am, for it 
Has just occurred to me, that these canvas- 
Scenes, which you so highly prize, may ceas? 
To exist, and what an awful affair 
That would be! Just fancy what a funny 
Old world we would have, if the sun would 
Go down to rest in the West, and never 
Rise up again ; or if the rivers, the 
Lakes, and the oceans escaped from their 
Beds, and fell off the world on planets 
Below ; or if the seasons got into 
A row and we would have but one eternal 
Summer, or Winter, or Autumn or 
Spring; or if you awoke some morn, and 
Opened the window to find that the 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 91 

Earth had disappeared in the Night, and 
Left your house standing on ■ ? 



Possibly 
This is why you want preserved scenes. We 
Have preserved peaches, apples, tomatoes, 
And old maids, and I presume we must have 
Preserved scenes. I can advance no other 
Reason for it, unless it be that your 
Life is to be prolonged for ages, and 
That you are prepared to waste it on painted 
Lies. The men who paint, and who have painted, 
Are bandits, who lay snares on the canvas 
For your eyes (snares are nothing but lies), 
And cast a spell o'er your brain, your will, 
Your soul, and your imagination, while they 
Rob you of your greatest wealth — Time. Many 
A man has been cast into prison for 
Much smaller crimes, but these great bandits 
Of the past and present have escaped the 
Hand of the Law, because the good easy 
Generations of Adam and Eve, have 
Never placed a true value on Time — their 
Lives, and the grave problems that confront 



92 



THE CONFESSIONS 



Them. Hands up ! I cry at last ! I 
John Allen, of Chicago, a lover of the 
People, have discovered these bandits ; I 
Have tracked them to their dens ; I have 
Uncovered them, they are now in our 
Possession, and shall stand trial before our eyes. 
Come forth Bularchus, Angelo, Raphael, da Vend ! 
Come forth Titian, Veronese, Correggio, Cousin! 
Come forth Murrillo, Rubens, Rembrandt, Reynolds ! 
Come forth Landseer, West, Beale, Leyendecker! 
Come forth Millet, Whistler, and ye countless 
Other daubers, trap setters, and bandits, and tell 
Us what ye have done for the generations of 
The past, and those of the present. 

Ye have 
Painted scenes of love, of life, of glory ; of 
Heaven, hell, and Purgatory; of the Last Supper; 
Of celebrated battles ; of life in the tropics ; 
Of altar pieces ; of rocks, caves, thickets, and desert 
Plains ; of antiquities ; crowded cities, and 
Ancient customs ; of curved bridges spanning placid 
Streams ; of gorgeous banquets, gorgeous 
Sunsets, and Bible subjects; of the seascape, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 93 

Landscape, and lifescape. and of storms at 
Sea, and on land. This, all this ye 
Have done. Very good. It sounds well. It 
Looks superb in print — but — have ye ever 
Painted the picture of a louse? And pray 
What have ye done for Life, and all its 
Bitter problems? Has this art of yours ever 
Solved one of them ? Not one ! And it shall 
Never solve them ! O, you have cunningly 
Done your work, and it passes to-day as 
One of the line arts ! You have entered 
Into a conspiracy against that 
Beautiful sacred thing — Life, to defraud 
It of some of its precious time, but you 
Shall do so no more ! My entrance on the 
Field, shall block your way forever ! 

And 
Ye sculptors of the world — ye that have been , 
At work, since Dibutades cast the 
Profile of his daughter's lover in clay ; 
Ye that have sought to celebrate so-called 
Heroes and events in marble, alabaster, 
And stone ; ye that have made the gods of 



94 



THE CONFESSIONS 



Old, the idols of Egypt, the Hideosities of 
Hindooism, and Buddhism, what has it 
Profited Life to know that ye have done 
All this ? What has it profited Life to 
Know that Phidias of Athens once lived, and 
Made statues ; that Julius Caesar was 
Devoted to the arts ; that Thonvaldsen 
Was famous, and that MacMonnies, and 
Kuhne Beveridge moulded silly dolls for 
The Kindergarten? 

O my children of 
The Wilderness, Life has profited nothing 
To know all this — except — except — to make 
For it a more dreadful tragedy than 
Before ! It has held Life up on the 
Highways, and byways of the World, and 
Robbed it of its precious gold — Time ! It 
Placed a thought in the heart of Life from the 
Beginning, and ever since that hour Life 
Has knelt in reverence at its feet. Shall it 
Kneel there forevermore? Shall it, my 
Beloved children ? Shall we still go on 
As before, and waste our golden moments 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 95 

On these painted and chiseled lies? Is it 

Possible we have become a race of 

Monkeys, that strain every nerve to imitate. 

And follow in the footsteps of our ancestors? 

Has the so-called Art ever soothed the 

Agony of the new-born babe, or consoled a 

Dying soul on the death-bed ? No ! Emphatically 

No ! It was not invented for any 

Such purpose. This being the case, it is 

Of no use whatever. That which cannot 

Be utilized at the dawn or close of 

Life, should have no place whatever 

On the earth. 

O, my children ! cast these 
Foolish ideas of Art to the four winds, 
For there is no art in all the world, except 
The art of life ! Learn that well, and you 
Will know the all-in-all, and how 
Shallow have been the pretensions of men 
And women, called artists and sculptors. 



96 THE CONFESSIONS 



FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 

A I MlE shadows of Adam and Eve still fall 

Among us, and they fill my heart and soul 
With appalling darkness, and a thousand 
Gloomy tragedies. Not a day goes by. 
But I feel their presence near. Not a day 
Goes by, but some Eve leads an Adam to 
The abyss. Not a day goes by, but some 
Paradise is rudely cast away. Long 
Ages, dark and terrible, have passed away 
Since Eden's fall, but still year after year. 
We ape the parts of our first parents, and 
The while we ape we ne'er neglect a chance 
To raise our voice against them, and to lay 
The blame of all our woe upon their 
Shoulders. We never pause — we never think that we 
Ourselves are Adams or are Eves. O, no ! 
Nor do we see the garden, though we 
Stumble o'er it in our daily walk of 
Life. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 97 

We are a race of fools, that wander 
Up and down, and wail within the shadows, 
But make no effort to escape at all. 
The stomachs of our passions must be fed 
At any cost. That being done, we walk 
Abroad with looks of fair contentment on 
Our faces, which are shams and nothing more. 
But these shams, horrible as they are, shall all 
Be shattered ; these gardens be all cast aside, 
And the shadows of Adam and Eve forever 
Lifted from your lives, if you will but 
Follow me. 



98 THE CONFESSIONS 



MASKS AND FACES. 

COMETIMES when I go forth, and see how the 

People squander time at palaces of 
Pleasure, called theaters, my eyes fill up 
With tears, and I'm almost o'erwhelmed with grief. 
Time is the greatest treasure that we have. 
And the manner in which it's lightly cast 
Away, leads me to believe that these same 
People are Death-Proof, and that they are 
Destined to live on, through the countless 
Ages that will roll by. They go forth with 
Lightly beating hearts to the theaters. 
The doors are opened. Brilliantly shine 
The lights within. They enter, take their seats — 
The orchestra strikes up the music — the 
Curtain rises — the actors perform their 
Parts on the stage — the curtain drops — the 
Audience files out again into the 
Night, and so on, as the ages roll by, 
But what do we learn from it all? Nothing — 
But that we are a race of fools to 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 99 

Squander golden moments, listening to 

That which we already know, and 

Witnessing the comic and tragic scenes 

Of our own life, or of that of a bygone 

Age. No new ideas are here advanced. 

Nothing new whatever for our 

Emancipation from the inexorable — 

The bitter drama of Life. Every NEW 

Theory here advanced, is as ancient 

As the cracked old face of the World. The 

Only difference 'tween it, and ideas 

Of the past, is, that it comes to us in 

A new garb. Every character assumed 

By the actor, is but a counterpart 

Of some character well-known to us, in 

Our own, or the distant ages. Everything 

Here is but a sham, and hides behind a 

Mask. You will observe too, that different 

Schools of acting here are represented, 

(Indeed quite a war of words and deeds, form 

The gulf between), and that the star of each 

Particular school, always holds the centre 

Of the stage, while his shadows — better known 

As disciples, form the background. Disciples 



ioo THE CONFESSIONS 

Of course, are not necessary, but then, they 

Look well, and help the star to shine with 

Greater lustre. This the star knows in his 

Private mind, but as wisdom is golden, 

He does not make it public, for he is 

Fearful lest his brilliance be diminished. 

Like actors and theaters, are the so-called 

Heroes of thought, and their schools. The heroes 

Are brilliant thieves of Time. Their schools — the 

Homes of lies. Had I my way, the heroes 

Of the present would be cast behind the 

Prison bars, and their schools abolished, 

And the names, and memories of those of the 

Past, would be forever blotted from the 

Page of History. Plato, Socrates, 

Buddha, Aristophanes, Rousseau, Voltaire, 

Kant, and a score of others, came upon 

The stage of the world, with the blare of 

Trumpets, and the drum-rolls of revolutions 

In thought ; their tongues and pens of eloquence 

Held the Nations spell-bound, but what did it 

Amount to? Words, words, words. NOTHING! 

What legacies have they left us? A few 

Books filled with choice phrases, with catch words, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 101 

And a host of polished shams ; a church or 
Two, which are of no use whatever — and 
That is all. Nothing was done for the life 
Of the present. Everything was for the 
Future, of which they knew nothing at all, 
Except that which they gathered from the 
Bible. They sought not to dispel the 
Dark shadow's of Life. They fell then. They 
Are falling now. Does not the murderer 
Live with us yet? Have we not adulterers, 
Keepers of brothels ; thieves ; liars ; bigamists ; 
Perjurers, and confidence men still in 
Our midst? The so-called heroes of thought 
Have come and gone. They have played their 
Parts on the stage. The curtain has dropped, 
And they have left naught but a memory 
For fools to revere, and wise men to waste 
Time over. The only true solution of 
Life's mystery, and the salvation of 
The world as well, lies in me, and in the 
Doctrines new, which I expound to you. O, 
Cast me not aside, nor reject the 
Doctrines that I place within your reach, 
For they are the planks, the drift-wood, that 



102 THE CONFESSIONS 

Will carry you safely o'er the storm-tossed 
Sea, to the shores and glories of the 
New Life, and New Cities, of which you 
Have but a dim idea at present. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. IG3 



WAITING. 

\ LL through the long, long night, I wept and 

moaned 
Upon the cruel breasts of the storm ; all through 
The long, long night, I was buffeted by 
Bitter winds, till I could bear no longer 
With them, till in my heart's deep anguish, I 
Was forced to cry aloud to the hunted 
Thing within my room — "a curse be on you 
And your ceaseless longings ! Have you not done 
With them ? Will you ne'er learn to wear the crown 
That wisdom brings? Will your hands forever 
Beckon to the phantoms — forever build 
Fair palaces of ice and idols grand 
Beneath the rain of fire the sun sends down? 
Will your feet forever wander up the 
Heights where avalanches hover? Peace, be 
Still I say. Away with these mad dreams ! They 
Are but feasts provided by the phantoms. 
They are not for you. There's absolutely 
Nothing for you there. There's absolutely 



I0 4 THE CONFESSIONS 

Nothing for me there. All is emptiness! 
All is hope deferred. All is love denied. 
Mayhap you fail to grasp the meaning of 
My words. Mayhap they are not clear enough 
To you. I will sum the whole thing up in 
Just three little words. ALL IS WAITING! 

Life 
Is the great drama of waiting — but of 
Death, what of death? Does the dramatic 
Climax come with it, when you or I, or 
Such as you and I dissolve the bands most 
Cruel that chained us both together in a 
Living hell, and then float out into the 
Great Beyond? O, no, disguise it as we 
May, it is but a climax that leads into 
Another sphere of waiting. It will be 
A change at least, and a change is something after 
All, but you will still be waiting. 

Your face 
Then will be as drawn and white, and tear-stained 
As now — 'you will be waiting. Come, you seem 
Not yet to comprehend. You are as 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Stupid as the proud cold world. Come, the first 
Faint streaks of dawn are in the San Francisco 
Skies. Let us go forth where you still think 'tis 
Possible to find the thing you seek. Shall 
I call our brother of the mantle dark 
To walk with us? 

The hunted thing with a 
Shudder drew the hood close 'round its head, and 
Murmured low, "we will go on without him." 
Along the road we slowly went, for there 
Are roads in San Francisco, but like our 
Search for Light — they lead nowhere. They are 
Waiting. We went on, and the hunted thing 
Kept sobbing all the way. Its every step 
Was but an added chord to the sad sweet 
Symphony of life. "It is useless well 
I know," said I, "to storm and wail within 
The shadows — you are waiting. Behold the 
Blue sky o'er us! How beautiful, how calm 
It is. So beautiful, so calm, that it 
Sends wild thrills of madness through my heart. 
To-day 'tis garbed in blue. To-morrow it 
May don its steel-gray robes, and as Time speeds 



™5 



106 THE CONFESSIONS 

On, lilacs will bloom in all its yellow 

Fields. At night a million gems will glitter 

In its robes, and crescent moons flash from its 

Heights. The clouds will come, the thunders roar, and 

Storms will rage, and rains will fall — -but all to 

No purpose. They will come and go, and come 

And go, as the long caravan of ages 

Pass swiftly o'er the sands — but the sky will 

Still be waiting. It makes madness whirl through 

Heart and brain, when I look up at it! 

It hurts ! It stings ! I long for it- to fall 

With the crash of earthquakes at my feet, so 

That my head can push itself up through the 

Floor of blue, and — and see the great beyond. 

But it will never fall. Be not afraid. 

It, like all the rest, is waiting. 

There was 
A close gath'ring of the hood, and then a deep 
Sob came from out its folds. 'Twas pitiful 
To see how the hunted one still grasped at 
Some faint ray of hope. We now stood on the 
Far Pacific shore, and heard the breakers 
Roar, and burst a silver show'r of melodies 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 10 y 

O'er all the jagged rocks below. Long — long 

We stood and gazed in silence o'er the sea, 

Till the silence sore oppressed me, and I 

Cried out, "can you not see the folly of 

It now, or are you as stupid as 

The proud cold world? Behold the sea, the calm, 

Majestic, beautiful sea. 'Tis calm now 

Because the bitter winds are silent ; 

Because the sea-drift is gently tossed 

Along its glassy bosom. 'Tis even 

Rippling with laughter. Yet I know this 

Self-same sea, is savage, merciless, 

Inhuman. 'Tis calm now because it is 

Not troubled. But times there are when rage fills 

All its bosom. When it bubbles o'er with 

Discontent ; when it bellows o'er the 

Mountain waves ; when 'tis lashed to fury by 

Old Neptune; when it plays the tyrant; when 

It hurls poor struggling ships across the 

Angry billows. This all this I know, and 

That its present calm is but a brutal 

Mask, and 'tis this that fills me with despair. 

I long for it to leap from out its bed, 

So that I can then read all the secrets of 



108 THE CONFESSIONS 

Its depths. But fear not you poor, poor hunted 
Thing, it will not leave its bed — it will not 
Disclose its secrets. It is waiting. Dost 
Understand at last?" 



But my hunted soul 
Would not understand, and it moaning said:— 
"If there is no hope in sea or sky, there 
Must be some here in the land of palm and 
Pine." And it lifted up its tear-stained face 
To me, a perfect picture of all mis'ry. 
"And you still have hope?" I asked. 

"I still have 
Hope," my soul replied. 

"To hope," I softly 
Said, "is but to wait." 

"It is to wait," my 
Soul replied. 

"It is beautiful to wait," 
Continued I, "If the crown lies near at 
Hand; if you can find the gold down at the 



OF JOHN ALLUN. 



I09 



Foot of every hill, but to wait and to 

Receive naught in return but sack-cloth, ashes, 

Thorns, and bitter winds, and the cold embrace 

Of death, is to make of life a tragedy 

Most terrible. So you still have hope. I 

Really do admire you. But pray, where think 

You, can all the ideals of your hope be 

Found? Not here, you poor pinched creature of an 

Earthly hell ; not here, where sun and moon, and 

Star shine down upon the orange and vine ; not 

Here, where feathered warblers fill the trees ; not 

Here, where snow-clad peaks look down on valley 

Plain, and stream — no, no, not here at all, for 

These, all these, like sky and sea, in all their 

Changing moods are waiting — waiting!" 

At this 
My hunted soul stole from my side, and crawled 
Across the sands. It moaned and wept. There was 
Scarce a spark of life in it, but still it 
Clung to hope, that like a sunbeam melted 
In its grasp. It was waiting. 
San Francisco, 1904. 



I io THE CONFESSIONS 



REFLECT. 

TjERE read of one who climbed the height, 

The glittering heights, and failed, as all 
Things fail upon the earth, and then 
Reflect, if 'twere not best to 
Follow me into the City 
New which I have prepared for you. 



THE CLIMBER. 

A WANDERING goatherd in the streets 

Of far-off Alpine village stood, 
And saw draw near a chariot 
Of gold and crystal wondrous fair. 
Upon it, lashing foam-white steeds 
To frantic speed, the rider stood, 
Uncaring for the multitude 
Of throngs, all ages and all trades 
And wavs of Life. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. Ill 

There sat within, 
On crimson velvet seat, a Maid 
Of grace and beauty marvellous ! 
All eyes were turned, all hands were raised 
Towards her now beseechingly, 
And voices wild for favors plead. 
Full many trampled were beneath 
The prancing hoof-beats of the steeds, 
Or crushed under the grinding wheels ! 
For sage divines ; the poor, the rich ; 
The young, the man of four score years ; 
The student, and professors wise — 
All madly rushed towards the Maid, 
With outstretched arms, to win her smiles ! 
But calmly sat she, with a face 
Impassive as those mountain peaks, 
With naught of recognition there, 
Tho' the way was wet with blood and tears. 
And strewn with myriad broken hearts ! 
The simple goatherd marvelled much 
To see this Maid so passing fair. 
Was she a Princess from afar? 
For the slaves of Toil a Joan of Arc? 
A Queen of Song to glad their hearts 



1 1 2 THE CONFESSIONS 

And thrill? Or fairy with rich gifts? 
He turned him to a veteran gray 
All bent and worn and bullet-scarred 
And him bespoke: 

"Who is this Maid 
Who rules all hearts with queenly sway?" 
His withered hand the veteran laid 
Upon the goatherd's arm, and said 
With voice of treble, child-like tones : 
"This is the Maid for whom the world 
Doth sigh, and many perish still — 
Have perished since the world began ! 
Old, young, weak, strong, humble and great, 
Rich, sinner, priest, and potentate, 
The fool, the sage her votaries are ! 
Happy, yet wretched is his life 
Who basks within her witching smiles, 
And on her passionate kisses feeds ! 
But once a year this way she comes 
Bestowing favors on the few !" 
E'en as he spake the chariot stopped. 
The Maid alighted, and the throng 
Fell back in awe — made opening wide 



OF JOHN ALLEN. n 

Of avenue, thro' which she passed. 

Up to the startled goatherd she 

All smilingly, came, and straightway threw 

Her arms ahout his sun-bronzed neck, 

And pressed upon his trembling lips 

Her burning kisses! Mad with joy, 

He begged her never to depart, 

But evermore his star to be 

Amid the storms and ills of Life! 

She whispered something to him then, 

And, entering her chariot swift, 

Sped on her way, amid the sighs 

Of throngs of disappointed hearts ! 

Envied by all, the goatherd stood 

And heard the shouts of bitter rage 

That 'round him beat. 

"To think," they cried, 
"That she hath showered favors on 
This ragged toiler of the hills, 
While many are far worthier here !" 
But he heeded not the furious speech, 
And taking up his daily task, 
With hope renewed, he wandered on. 



1 14 THE CONFESSIONS 

The birds to him sang carols sweet ; 

And flowers nodded on his path. 

Scattering fragrance o'er his way. 

Vet in the mids of his delight 

A shadow fell athwart his heart ! 

Oft in his toil he paused to brush 

The sweat that gathered from his brow — 

A string of sparkling, silver beads — 

For he was musing of the one 

Who sat within the chariot fair — 

Her eyes, like brilliant stolen stars 

Of Paradise ! He felt again 

Her maddened kisses thrill his blood 

With fires of Love; those downy arms — 

Soft pillows of the Seraphim ! 

Would that he might once more repose 

Upon her bosom, and expire ! 

Then would he to his task repair, 

While the hours crept by with feet of lead ! 

Anon he turned imploring eyes 

To peaks against the steel blue dome, 

That towered like vast, cathedral walls ; 

Like monuments of Gods of old ! 

Or like the fangs, in jagged row, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Of fabled monsters of the Past ! 
Or thoughts of Genius soaring high ! 
Or giants garbed in silver robes 
With fringes of the eternal snow ! 
Wild torrents thundered deep below 
With eloquence that fiercely poured 
Thro' tunnels of the mountain's heart. 
With gathered fury, leashed, in view 
Crouched avalanches everywhere — 
White dragons of fair Switzerland ! 
Great lakes that mirrored Alpine skies 
And all their stars of sparking rays — 
The eyes of Angels ! Swift cascades 
Adown the craggy steps out-leapt, 
With silvery feet, and dark green pines 
Seemed armor-clad for battle dire 
With ice-armed legions everywhere ! 
Deep glaciers gleamed in every pass ! 
And silver-arrowed rivers sped 
Upon their flight ! 

Like emerald wreathes 
The valleys twined around the scene, 
And sounds of tinkling bells were heard 



115 



1 1 6 THE CONFESSIONS 

Floating on pinions of the air ! 

The chamois flashed across the sea ; 

And music of the huntsman's horn 

Came to the ear of the shepherd lone 

Tending his flock of bleating sheep ; 

While the last rays of the dying sun 

Tinted the floating clouds with lights 

Of purple, rose and amber gold. 

The land of Freedom — Switzerland — 

Unrolled its beauty to his eyes ! 

Long gazed he on the marvellous realm. 

These peaks seemed mighty problems high 

Upon the varied paths of Life, 

And beyond them he would, searching, find 

The secret haunts of fair Romance ! 

Mayhap, the Chariot-Maid was there ! 

Would he attempt the heights to scale? 

Perchance when he had bravely won 

A foothold on their arduous side — 

Conquered each obstacle, and reached 

The highest peak, might he not find 

An icy wilderness — no more — 

Instead of trace of her he loved? 

* * * 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 117 

The sun poured down its store of gold ; 

It was a day of Alpine calm 

And beauty. To his view there came 

The shadow of a human form. 

The stranger paused; upon his brow 

Were waving locks of iron-gray 

That fell on shoulders broadly made ; 

His lips were pale, and firm compressed ; 

His raven-black, and piercing eyes 

Peered from their bushy eye-brows 

On the goatherd who stood wondering nigh. 

The iron hand of Time had left 

Its marks upon the stranger's face, 

Yet fire still blazed within those eyes, 

As if of will unconquerable ! 

* * * 
''Still dreaming, lad," he softly said, 
"Of the world afar and its delights, 
Of dazzling charms of one sweet maid? 
Why should you climb? Nigh all the world 
Is with you in your airy task ! 
Yours are but dreams, fair, idle dreams, 
That melt, like rainbows in the sky! 
When man meets me real Life begins, 



1 1 8 THE CONFESSIONS 

For I have crossed the giddy heights, 

And knowledge have of her you love ! 

I knew your secret — read your heart — 

From the first moment that we met ! 

I know where you may find the Maid 

If heart of yours is strong as steel! 

I'll point the way that you must take — 

I am the traveller of roads, 

And know the best and surest paths. 

Yet Pilgrims tremble when I'm near! 

I build the gorges, giant-mouthed, 

The dizzy precipices vast 

That must be crossed ere one can gain 

The glowing wreathlet of Success ! 

I plant the trees — the sharp-teethed rocks 

On paths that otherwise were smooth. 

Who conquers these his Life shall be 

One dazzling dream of Fairyland ! 

The road that leads to the palace bright 

Of the Maid you love is crowned with peaks 

That pierce the realms of vapid clouds 

Where Death doth lurk in every step ! 

Dare you attempt? If you succeed, 

The Maid you love you then shall wed ! 






OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 19 

But should you fail, you must return 
To Mother Earth — to nourish her — 
In some new form of life to rise !" 
The stranger spoke and disappeared. 

* # * 

"Be it so then !" the goatherd cried, 

"I'll follow on the toilsome trail ! 

I'll find the Maid I madly love !" 

But in his brain what thoughts arose? 

The Past — its hours of mystery — 

The Future and its roseate Hopes — 

The Present and its trials grim. 

But mused he : "Thus are heroes made ! 

When here the battle's roar had ceased, 

And the footsteps of the Legions vast 

Of bold imperious Caesar died 

Away from grand Helvetia old, 

At Ruth three from the Cantons met 

And swore beneath these Alpine skies 

To die in their dear Land's defence ! 

To burst the chains of Tyranny ! 

To drive the power of Austria 

Hence, like the leaves before the blast ! 

These heroes were ! Their names outshine 



120 THE CONFESSIONS 

Like brilliant stars of Hope and Faith 

To the weary Pilgrims of the earth !" 

All day he strode still on ; but now, 

With quickened pace, his heart was thrilled 

With sacred fire. 

Lake Constance shone 
Before his sight ; the moonbeams fell, 
In dreamy silver, o'er its breast! 
He bent to hear while whispering waves 
Told of the mighty days of old 
When forests which its strand adorned 
Were peopled with the startled stag — 
Were ringing with the Roman shouts ! 
But now his thoughts were not of these. 
In reverie, far-off was he! 
At Schaffhausen that quaint old town, 
Set in the Twentieth Century's lap, 
Of oriel windows, gables gray, 
No rock nor barrier crossed his path. 
But, to the South, the glittering towers 
Of rugged mountains lifted high. 
There lay the pathway to his goal — 
There dwelt the Angel of his dreams ! 



OF JOHN ALLEX. 121 

( Mi ward! While clouds, like argent Isles, 
Lay in the upper deep of blue. 
Lake Wallenstadt slumbered within 
Its rocky bed. Sudden he heard 
The roar of conflict near at hand ; 
And at the advancing host of Knights 
A handful of brave shepherds hurled 
Down giant rocks ! 

For hours the strife 
Raged on. Like thunderbolts swift crashed 
Huge boulders hurling instant death ! 
Those shepherds' valor conquered here ! 
And Knights of Gold were vanquished by 
The muscles of the sons of Toil ! 
Still on he went, and down the vale 
He saw an armored knight, with sword 
Poised o'er a shepherd at his feet. 
The goatherd rushed upon him there 
With well aimed blow of oaken club 
And dashed the knight to gory death ! 
He knelt to dress the shepherd's wounds, 
Who cursed him that he killed the knight, 
For said he : "Soon my soul would be 



122 THE CONFESSIONS 

Within the Palace fair of Fame !" 

Still, as he dressed the shepherd's wounds, 

He murmured: "Will this be my Fate?" 

'Twas but a vision of the Past ! 

Within the vale of Engadine 

lie stood, where mountain giants shone 

In regal glory ! Rivers flashed 

Like steel swords, thro' the leafy trees. 

The sun stood with its feet of gold 

Upon the peaks, and cascades leapt, 

And sang their roundelays of joy! 

He peered adown amid the trees 

Where mountains mirrored rugged heads 

Upon Lake Maggiore's breast. 

Where bright blue skies forever hang 

O'er dreamy Lake Lugano while 

The sun-kissed breath of Italy 

Sweeps o'er its bosom. 

Then he turned, 
His heart with gloomy sadness bowed, 
For seemed he lost, as in a maze ! 
Oh, for one star from out the Heaven 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Of Thought to guide him to the shrine 
Of yonder Goddess of his heart ! 
On ! On ! with face set to the North 
He sped, and crossed a rugged hill ; 
Where the women, strangely beautiful, 
Beckoned to him, by Zurich's Lake 
And sought with siren voices to woo 
Him to their arms ! 

With fond delight 
He gazed upon enchanting charms, 
And w T illed to throw him at their feet, 
Forever there in bliss to be! 
But, hark ! the roar of battle rolled, 
'Mid the roads of winds invisible, 
Rushing in madness to his ears ! 
It called him to be present there ! 
It stirred his heart, and urged him on 
To join the struggle, and he fled, 
Waving the women his adieu ! 

V !§S ^i« 

At Sempach, in the narrow pass, 
The tide of battle halted. Here 
The heroic Swiss had humbled now 



123 



I24 THE CONFESSIONS 



The flower of Austria's chivalry. 
Like tigers watched they, either foe, 
Gathering muscles for the fray — 
Muscles of steel and adamant! 
To Death or triumph now to haste. 
The Swiss crouched in the narrow pass, 
Like statues of Defiance ! 

The Austrians came, 
Like massive waves ! 

'Twas there, and then 
A peasant hero boldly stood 
Within the awful jaws of Death! 
Then rushed he forward, gathering 
Within his breast the awful spears, 
And perished at the foeman's feet ; 
Yet shook their lines, slow-wavering, 
Until they all were put to flight ! 
Oh, glorious example thine, 
Brave Arnold Von Winkelreid ! 
As the sun shone o'er this battlefield 
The goatherd saw the Maid so fair — 
Heart of his heart ! She placed a wreath 
( )n Unter Walden's hero's brow ! 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 125 



And uttering a cry of joy 

He rushed to meet her ; but she fled ! 

"At last!" cried he, "the road I see! 

Foot-sore and weary tho' I plod, 

I near the goal of heart's desire!" 

Still toiling on, a maid he met 

Enveloped in a robe of charms. 

She was indeed a vision bright ! 

She sang rare songs of beauty sweet, 

With voice that thrilled, like magic, thro' 

His soul. His heart was soon ensnared 

In the web of melody she wove ! 

"Madman!" she cried, "no further go! 

Here ever pause 'mid glittering joys, 

Tempt Fate no more ! Your mission vain 

Is known to me. Ambition's road 

Is strewn with bleeding, broken hearts ! 

Tho' thousands perish, still they come ! 

Ah, few indeed who reach the goal ! 

Fleeting the smiles of her you seek, 

Elusive as the lightning's flash ! 

And even if you do succeed 

And reach her palace — even then 

The struggle is but just begun — 



I2 6 THE CONEESSIONS 

'Tis vain to hold your footing" there ! 
Turn, turn aside, nor sap your strength ! 
The brilliant mirror of your dreams 
I'll shatter. Come, and follow me! 
I'll lead you to a haunt among 
The crystal hills, where snow-white doves 
And robins coo and warble sweet 
The happy songs of radiant dreams ! 
On balmy nights we two can sit 
On a rustic bench, by a silvery brook, 
And drink in the music of dear Love ! 
Where never wordling's sigh can come. 
From gardens of delight I'll cull 
The brightest flowers for you alone !" 
"Oh! say no more!" the goatherd cried, 
"Your siren darts fall pointless here. 
I will go on, Ambition calls ; 
Tho' avalanches bar my way 
I will go on ! The flowers of Love 
And Beauty which you offer me 
Will fade before the morrow's sun ! 
Already they in throes of Death ! 
New could I wear them on my breast, 
Where Life Throbs warm and fast? 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 127 

'Tvvere best 
To leave them in the garden fair 
With their companions ; sacred they 
Even as our lives sacred are !" 
He turned ; his journey to resume ; 
The battle won, renewed was he 
In strength and vigor of the heart. 
Where the glorious Staubbach tumbles down 
O'er wildest crags, in silvery showers, 
All fringed with people, green and gold, 
Where liquid, blazing diamonds gleam, 
All bruised and torn he wandered on 
He stretched his trembling, bleeding hands 
And plucked a brilliant gem from out 
St. Gothard's crown, at peril dear 
Of his whole life ! The first of gems 
That he had found since Ije set out! 
Oh, what a treasure 'twas to him ! 
For hours he gazed and gloated there 
On the seraphic fires of its soul ! 
He heard its melodious murmuring: 
"Oh, Paradise and all its joys 
Are dwelling here within this gem!" 
The lordly Rhine was at his feet, 



I 2 8 THE CONFESSIONS 

And following, like fiery youth. 
It rushed by huts and hamlets, till 
'Tvvas lost among the city's walls. 
Leaving him with his reveries. 
* * * 
lie saw armed Knights of Tyranny, 
Who bowed the hearts of men to dust ! 
And soon they melted far away, 
Like dew before the morning sun. 
For a terrific storm arose. 
And when it ceased, the sunshine burst 
Thro' the roof of clouds, a waterfall 
Of gold ; and lo ! brave William Tell 
Stood o'er the dying Gessler there 
And Liberty was glorified, 
And Tyranny was dashed to earth ! 

:;: :|: $ 

And still the goatherd wandered on, 
V\ iili bleeding feet and weary heart. 
Where the silver crowned Alps uprose. 
By emerald pastures, countless flocks, 
•\nd sun-kissed landscapes 'neath the blue. 
Me stopped to rest beside Lausanne 
Where walked the Kings of earth, and where 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 129 

Lived monarchs of the world of Thought — 

Voltaire and Gibbon and Rousseau ! 

He struggled by the mighty Rhone 

That like an arrow rushes thro' 

This wonderland of Nature's realm, 

Past glaciers and mountains huge, 

Past great St. Bernard, where the hosts 

Of grand Napoleon looked down ! 

Mont Blanc, the goatherd gazed upon, 

Its glittering helmet towering high 

Above its army of giants near ! 

"So will I tower!" the climber cried, 

"Above the burdens that I bear!" 

Bleeding and bruised, still on and on 

He struggled o'er the toilsome path, 

And then he saw hundreds of skulls 

About him strewn, and from a cave, 

A giant came who bore a shield. 

There was one path which onward led. 

Beside the giant's horrid den, 

Towards the enemy he came 

No thought of fear in his brave soul. 

The giant's name was Ignorance ; 

A gem flashed on his mighty breast. 



130 



THE CONFESSIONS 



The goatherd willed it to possess 
This gem at any cost ! His sword 
He drew as he advanced. The fight 
For hours raged with furious might. 
But 'neath the giant's cruel blows 
The goatherd, fainting, gasping, fell ! 

* ■',■■ * 
The earth, the mountains and the sky 
All whirling seemed ; the torrents roared 
Within his ears ! 

He looked up then 
And saw the soft sky bending o'er; 
While stood the giant near his den. 
By the fallen sat a blue-eyed maid 
With a winning smile and wooing voice. 
Who pleaded his sad wounds to dress. 
"No!" cried he, "This would comfort bring, 
And sweet repose; but I was born 
For trials and for battle-strife !" 
Slowly he rose unto his feet, 
With sword in hand. The maiden turned 
Aside and wept. The giant quick 
The fight renewed with fury dire ; 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

But soon the unequal combat ends ; 

The strength of Desperation drove 

The goatherd's sword within the heart 

Of that fell monster to the hilt, 

And the goatherd tore the precious gem 

From the gory, cleft and quivering breast ! 

sfc * * 

"At last ! At last !" the goatherd cried, 
"I am upon the right road now !" 
Emerging from his shelter, he 
Exposed was to the golden glare 
Of sunlight, and grew faint and wan. 
Two maids of beauty came to him. 
"Pilgrim," they said, "your days are few, 
For Time, the sculptor, has upon 
Your brow carved wrinkles. You are old, 
Your hair is white, your eyes are dimmed, 
And worn and bent, you cannot live 
In this fierce light that on you shines! 
Unto the gardens fair of Peace, 
Pleasure and Comfort come with us ! 
Enjoy the hours that yet remain." 
He yielded, too weak to resist ; 
And slowly they led him away. 



131 



132 



THE CONFESSIONS 



Then thro' the garden's open gates 
He saw the marble fountains play. 
With many tinted waters rich. 
Couches of velvet and of gold 
On which the forms of maids reclined 
Were near ; sweet music stole upon 
The perfumed air ; rare flowers bloomed 
Intoxicating with their scent. 
"Surely," said he, " 'tis Paradise! 
Here will I rest in happiness 
Forevermore !" 

But as he paused, 
About to enter this domain, 
A feeling strange rushed thro' his heart, 
The counterpart of what he felt 
When kissed by his fair Chariot-Maid ! 
The fires of courage and of strength 
That feeling strange again renewed. 
With a wild cry he cast aside 
The lovely sylphs, and turned away. 
Toiling still up the mountain's side ! 
Below him echoed far and wide 
The terror-stricken cry that rose : 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

"No further, weary Pilgrim go ! 
Beware the crashing avalanche!" 
At last his feet had gained the top 
Of highest mountains, and he paused 
To rest, for he was sore opprest. 
Alas ! the air was hard to breathe, 
And fiercest vultures hovered 'round ! 
So hot the glare of noonday sun 
He longed to be in pastures mild 
Among the flock he dearly loved ! 

As he turned to view the scene around 
A vision burst upon his sight. 
To him it looked a picture bright 
Torn from the walls of Eden's sphere ! 
A palace built of sapphires rare 
And rubies — 'twas the dome of Fame ! 
"At last ! at last !" he wildly cried, 
"The goal is near for which I've toiled ! 
Within the arms of her I love, 
Yes, madly love, I soon shall rest !" 
Sweet, silver bells rang from the towers, 
And long processions sought its doors. 
As he approached, chains rattled loud ; 



133 



I3 4 THE CONFESSIONS 

The swinging draw-bridge lifted was, 
The Warder of the towers cried out; 
"Too late! the Maid you seek is Fame! 
She's wedded to a friend of yours — 
The butcher's son of far-off Bern !" 

:|: $ * 

The goatherd staggered to a rest 
On rustic bench. His breath and blood 
Seemed leaving him at this fell blow ! 
"The butcher's son," he laughed aloud, 
"That good-for-nothing, drunken elf! 
The scorn and jeer of all the town !" 
Thus he bemoaned his hapless lot, 
His breath and soul melting away. 

:Jc :j: $ 

The Warder spoke: "Some travelers find 

The journey easy, while some toil 

And in a Life ne'er reach their goal ! 

Fame is as fickle as the flash 

Of lightning, tho' it shines on all 

It strikes but few, and those few die 

In the golden tangles of its web ! 

Far better 'tis to lowly live, 

Like humble beasts, in pastures green, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 135 

Than be a strong man seeking Fame ! 

For when the eyelids of the day 

Are closed, the beasts to slumber go, 

And have no dreams till day arise. 

What care they for the busy world? 

Better to be like these than sigh 

For bubbles of the Goddess Fame ! 

Frail as fair lies on Beauty's lips ! 

Where is thy gain ? Return ! Return ! 

Oh, stranger, downcast, turn thy steps ! 

Go! be a beacon 'mid the dark 

For Folly to take warning by !" 

The goatherd sank in mute despair, 

Then plunged him from the mountain's side ! 

A poor, dwarfed fir-tree stayed his fall, 

And held him in its rugged arms. 

For hours he lay in its embrace, 

Then, strength returned, he started up 

The mountain's path defiantly, 

Determined not to know defeat! 

* * * 
Hark! what mighty sound was heard? 
A roar, like thunder, shook the air! 
Oh, horror ! it was the avalanche 



136 THE CONFESSIONS 

The white dragon of Switzerland ! 
Adown the mountain's side it rushed. 
While the air was filled with broken trees, 
And wayside cabins, and huge rocks. 
Ah! what its fury could withstand? 
No army would dare cross its path ! 
Down, down, it came, and to his death 
It hurled the goatherd in its icy arms ! 
While far above the vulture sailed 
In glee ; and a million tiny suns 
Were gleaming in the Alpine sky ! 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 137 



GRATITUDE. 

9 A I HVAS Sunday. A beautiful day of calm 

And sunshine. Mother and I had just 
Returned from mass. I sat down to read the 
Chicago-American while she prepared 
The breakfast. From time to time as I looked out 
The window, I saw men, women, and children 
Passing up and down the street ; some well dressed, 
Others in rags, and all seemingly in 
Happy frame of mind. 

After breakfast I 
Again sat by the window, and listened 
To the merry shouts of children at their 
Play, and the occasional barking of 
A dog. 

A cloud passed before the face of 
The sun — a fleecy handkerchief to wipe 
The gold sweat from its brow. The dust in the 
Streets arose like smoke from a fire. Papers 



138 THE CONFESSIONS 

On the sidewalk, leapt, and danced, and jumped 
Along; in the hands of the wind. Dull-gray 
Clouds o'erspread the bright blue skies. Low growls 
Of thunder were heard, smothering the rage 
Of the storm, which soon would burst upon the 
Trembling earth. Down came the rain in sheets and 
Spears of silver. It pattered on the 
Window-panes, and soon they were weeping like 
The clouds. Suddenly the thunder wildly 
Roared and rushed to the doors where the sun goes 
Down ; the lightning flashed — the angry eyes of 
The storm, and the thirsty earth, sidewalks, and 
Roofs were drinking their fill. 

My heart and brain 
Were like the storm. I longed to go forth, and 
Fiercely fight for the liberty of all 
My people. My heart bleeds for the misery 
Of all crawling flesh, that answers to the 
Names of John, Jim, Ed, Frank, Tom, May, Nell, Flo, 
And so on. I long to give them the freedom 
Of which they little dream at present. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 39 

My 
Soul, heart, and mind to-day, float from their 
Prison. I restrain them not, for that would 
Be to strangle poetry — and I am a 
Poet — a strong poet of Democracy ! 

I stand 'neath the frown of the 
Yratanitza Mountains. Close by in a 
Hut, lives a mother and her son. He is 
The sunshine of her heart. With eyes of care 
She watches every step he takes ; with hands 
Of love his food and clothing she provides, 
Saying, "some day he'll be a man, and the 
Staff of life in my old age." 

From the 
Window she can see the mountains stretch 
Away upon the bosom of her beloved 
Servia. Like waves upon the restless 
Sea they seem, and in her heart she feels that 
They remind her of the sharp and bitter 
Heights she climbed, along the stormy road of 
Life. "These," she sternly says, "must never stand 
Upon the paths my son will travel." 



1 4 THE CONFESSIONS 

The 
Wind swept across the bosom of the 
Winding Morava. Its skirts rustled through 
The fields of wheat and rice. These she loved, for 
Were they not a part of her own country? 
The years passed by — those merciless steps of 
Time, and her son grew up to man's estate. 
The hour for parting was at hand. She called 
Him to her side. There surely was a flood 
Of tears within her voice, that never reached 
Her eyes, when she said : — "tq-day my son we 
Part for many a weary year. Our paths 
Lie far apart. For you, the fierce long struggle 
In the world for gold and fame. For me, the 
Lonely hours at home, that shall only be 
Brightened, when you write to me. In the battle 
On the road of life — never once shrink back! 
Pass through its fires of hell to gain the prize. 
Remember ! you are a Servian ! And 
Servians are giants of strength. Their hearts are 
Brave. They are a nation of unsung poets, 
And prize their liberty, far more than gems 
Of glory. Remember ! — they once held back 
The Grecian legions, and struck the Turkish 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 141 

Power a fatal blow. If your heart asks 
Further proof of their great valor — gaze at 
Belgrade's ruined walls and palisades that 
Oft withstood the bitter siege and shocks of 
War, and then pass on with conquering feet. 
And should you, by some mishap, fall in the 
Fight — remember this home, and these arms will 
Receive you with a welcome. Good-bye, my 
Boy ! God bless You !" 

The years passed by with wings 
Of sorrow, for a letter never reached her 
From her boy. But with brave heart, she still hoped 
On. Surely he'd some day think of her who 
Nursed, and fed, and clothed him in helpless 
Childhood, and he'd send a letter full of 
Love for her poor aching heart, and wherewith 
To purchase comfort in the fierce, and stormy 
Days of old age. But, alas ! that day never 
Dawned for her ! Poverty assailed her with 
Success, and the angel of sickness spread 
Itself throughout the canals and rivers 
Of her body. The last hard blow fell on 
Her tottering form — she was driven from the 



14- 



THE CONFESSIONS 



Shelter of her home, and it was sold for 

Robberous taxes. She staggered along 

The road, and her every step was filled with 

Pain and bitterness. She had no place now 

To rest her weary head, and weakness was 

Weighing down upon her like a load of stones. 

To the right there towered a mountain high 

Above the floor of clouds. She tottered on, 

And cast herself down at its feet. 'Twas sweet 

To lie where nature dwelt in beauty. It 

Was rest. She never saw her boy again. 

An old man passing, recognized her. He 

Had known her for a score of years. He tried 

To rouse her, but she was in a deep sleep. 

It was the last sleep. Her circumstances 

Were well known to him. Said he : — "and to think 

That far off in Belgrade, her son lives with 

The rich and grand! His servants number forty. 

His horses are the finest in the land. 

Beauty's eyes look into his. Beauty's smiles 

Are cast upon him. Rare old wines are in 

His cellars, and his marble palace is 

The wonder of the world." 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 143 

The rain is still 
Pattering on the window-panes. But w r e 
Left off here. Let the fight begin again ! 



144 



THE CONFESSIONS 



THE GIFTS OF LIFE. 

[ AWOKE one morn in April, from wild 

Dreams of the night, only to be ushered 
Into the drama of day dreams that have 
Been with me since I was a child. 

"Come," said 
They, "the voice of day is loudly calling; 
The brown-clad sparrows sweetly chirping ; and the 
Factory whistles shrilly blowing. Take up 
The burden of your journey where you laid 
It down last night. You are the strength of all 
Our realms. Record for us. Walk forth." 

The 
Invitation I little heeded, for I was 
Indeed a victim of their wiles each day. 
And 'twas superfluous to remind me 
Of it. I sat down to the breakfast Mother 
Had prepared for me — three nice fresh eggs boiled 
Soft, a slice or two of bread, and one of 



OP JOHN ALLEN. 145 

Raisin cake, a saucer of strawberry 
Jam, and a cup of coffee. After this, 
And a short prayer of thanksgiving, I bade 
Good-bye to Mother, and began the 
Mechanical journey of the day. 

As 
I went up the street, the groceryman 
Outside his store, with morning paper in 
Hand, pleasantly nodded to me; a few 
Friends near the gloomy foundry, bade me a 
Cheerful "good morning." Further up, "Dewey" 
Met me, not the famous old sea-dog, but 
A white and brown spotted animal, that 
Rarely failed to greet me every morning, 
With a friendly wag of his sharp-pointed 
Tail, and an open, unflinching look, from 
His honest, dark-brow T n eyes. Would that all men 
Could look me in the eyes like this intelligent 
Animal, and throw aside the masks they 
Wear. After patting his smooth brown head, I 
Boarded the car, and soon arrived at my 
Place of work! 



146 THE CONFESSIONS 

The day began. The same walking, 
Smiling flesh around me ! Back again to 
The dusty shelves and counters ! Back again 
To the weary mechanical day ! Back 
Again to the day dreams ! Back again to 
My eternal woe ! But here my hands perform 
Mechanical work, while my mind in fancy 
Leads me far away. My cherished cities! 
My strong and beautiful lovers ! The hopes 
That bloomed within my heart's deep center, when 
But a boy, to rise a Saviour of my 
People, country, and the world, in legions 
Came before me, and gazing afar, I 
Saw beneath Roumanians violet skies — 
A man among the mottled kine upon the 
Plains — one of the songs — sad though it be — 
That fills the harmony of life with 
Wildest beauty. 

Seventy years had placed 
Their silvery crown upon his head, and left 
Their furrows on his brow. Life had dealt with 
Him severely. Its terrible scars were on 
His heart. He was too feeble now to labor. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 147 

To-day was his last upon the plains. On 
The morrow he would be adrift upon 
The merciless sea of the world. From 
Childhood up, his lot was ever in the 
Damnable fields of privation, and of 
Poverty. The only days of song and 
Sunshine he had known, were those in which his 
Wife was fond and true to him. But alas ! 
This happiness was brief, and a shadow 
Fell across his path. A rich Armenian 
On his way to Bukharest, stopped at his 
Happy home for the night, and in the morn 
When he set out upon his journey, with 
Him went his beautiful wife. Poverty 
Had soured her love and soul. The glitter of 
Wealth dazzled her, and she gladly left all 
Poverty behind to revel in its glories. 

I do not condemn the step she took. The 
Imprisoned soul longs for its freedom. The 
Starved body requires nourishment. Tears coursed 
Down his cheeks — bitter tears, as with his little 
Pack, he went forth aimlessly begging for 
Employment. His brain was stunned, his face 



148 THE CONFESSIONS 

Was calm, but within his heart and soul, there 
Raged the fiercest fires of hell. 

For years he 
Labored on the farms as best he could, and 
Gathered in some gold to sustain him in 
The evening of his life. He knew the hour 
Would come when all his muscles would shrink up, 
The joints become stiff, and he be left by 
The wayside to die, if he had no money 
In his purse. So he carefully saved, and 
Took special pleasure in counting it over 
Day by day. But one morn when he unlocked 
The secret drawer to count the gold, he found 
Alas ! that it was gone. Some restless 
Spirit had taken the staff of his 
Tottering days, and that same hour his master 
Rudely turned him adrift upon the world. 

Without a murmur for the moment he 
Staggered up the road, caring little where 
His aching feet would lead. He then cried 
Aloud : "O ! Roumania ! my country ! 
Behold me, hopeless, dying, desolate 



OF JOHN ALLEX. 

Upon thy breast! In youth I walked along 
The winding Pruth and watched the Gipsies 
Wandering o'er thy bosom. I loved thy 
Pleasant plains ; the sturdy forests that stood 
Upon thy mountains ; the romance that crowned 
Thy valleys, and the opals in the wild 
Carpathians. I labored too, within thy 
Fields to make thee great, and is this the 
Reward that thou dost give in my declining 
Hours." 

The night was dark, and the winds were 
Low. He wandered on to where the beautiful 
Danube flows. There is a strange light in his 
Eyes. All the past scenes of his life rush 
Swiftly o'er the halls of his distracted 
Brain. Has he a wife? A mother? A sister? 
Brother? Gold? What links him to the earth? 

With a smile on his old withered face, he 

Walks swiftly off the banks into the river. 

It was shallow so far, but bravely he 

Walked on. Little by little, the waters 

Closed in upon him. They reached his shoulders- 



149 



1 50 THE CONFESSIONS 



His neck — his mouth — and then — he disappeared 
Beneath the troubled surface. The moon burst 
Through the clouds, and sadly it looked 
Down upon the scene. A night bird shrieked a 
Requiem o'er the waves, then silence reigned 
Supreme. And that was all. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 151 



A PROMISE. 

lVVTV HEART is a fountain of sighs, but 

To-day 'twas filled with a sad-tinged longing, 
As on Lake Michigan's sandy shores I 
Walked — a longing to link the scattered chords 
Of life in one grand harmony; to tear 
The masks from every face, and to unfold 
To them the glories, and unrivalled paths 
To the New City of Life, Love, and 
Democracy. 

My children were all around 
Ale. The sun-tanned fisherman with his rods 
And net ; the dreamy-eyed, shabby-clad lounger ; 
The eager joy-faced boys, casting pebbles 
In the lake ; the dark-skinned sons of Africa ; 
The weather-beaten driver on his seat, 
His red moustache drooping o'er the stem of his 
Brown-burned old clay pipe : the old man in the 
Old clothes, with an old silk hat, old, so old 
That it surelv saw service in the davs 



1 52 THE CONFESSIONS 



Of gold, the days of forty-nine, and the 
Mild faced mother with her little girl 
Attired in blue. 

How I longed to give them 
The freedom they little dreamt of. That was 
The thought that haunted me. 

The day was mild. 
A slight gauzy canopy of mist, o'erhung 
The rippling bosom of the lake, which had 
Changed its light-blue robes, for those of deepest 
Violet ; the sea-gulls, like flakes of silver, 
Flashed o'er its surface ; afar where the walls 
Of Heaven meet the floor of the lake, there 
Hung a narrow band of pearly clouds ; they 
Were motionless, and charmed the eyes of all 
Around me. What magnetic force must be 
Concealed within their depths! 

How damnably 
Desolate seems this Life to me ! Without 
That one grand thought, that one wild dream, to burst 
The chains that bind my people, I would not 



153 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Now be dragging my flesh along the bitter 
Road of thorns ! 

I push aside the shrouds of 
Distance. Long vistas appear. I see thee 
Montenegro, an atom on the cracked 
Old face of Europe. By special privilege, 
I walk along thy mountainous and 
Rugged breast to the shores of 
Scutari's lovely lake. Rich fields of corn 
Arise on every side like gems of beauty. 
Sheep and goats adorn thy peaceful hill-sides. 
The giant that stood for years before thee, and 
Darkened all thy sunny skies with tyranny, 
Now has fallen before the swords of 
Heroism. Still thou art not free. Another 
Giant more terrible, now stands before thy 
Path. Life with thee is yet a weary 
Struggle. Like all of us, thou art robbed 
Of that which should be thine. Come, Montenegro ! 
Arise ! and strike the blow ! Come to me in 
All thy woes ! Lay thy head upon my broad 
And democratic bosom, e'en though 
Tis filled with a damned desolation, and 



154 THE CONFESSIONS 

There pour out the oceans of thy dread 
Woe, for there, and there alone shalt thou learn 
Of the glories of the New City, and the 
New love ! 

The low voice of the red tug near 
The shore, called me back from the land of 
Dreams, and I stood once more before the lake. 
The day was dying in its shrouds of gold, 
And I, wishing to record some special 
Thoughts, sadly bade farewell to the inspirer 
Of my muse, and slowly wended my way 
Homeward ! 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 155 



SUCCESS. 

X-TARK! how the wild winds howl, and sing their 

songs 
Through all the doors and chimneys ! Woo-00-00 ! 
Pile more logs on the fire ; sit closer all, 
A story I would tell. Old George Murro 
Was a doctor all his life ; had studied 
Medicine for years — the medicine — the 
Science of life. Some shield of might would he 
Invent to save life, to snatch it from the 
Marble jaws of death. 

Why should the body 
Die ? Why be buried in the earth ? Why not 
Live forever ! This was his life-long song, 
His life-long study. 

Afar 'neath 
Grecian skies of blue, in the isles of sun 
And sea, where Nature carved her fringe of gulfs, 
And inlets 'round the coast, he sadly roamed 



156 THE CONFESSIONS 

Deep buried in the bosom of his studies. 

He resolved to be the Saviour of his 

Race, and all the world as well. That was 

The dream that led him up the glitt'ring 

Stairs of hope. "O Greece ! my country !" he 

Exclaimed, "for thee, and all thy sisters too, 

Do I now renounce the gilded pleasures 

Of the world. From this hour on they shall live 

Without me, for they remind me so much 

Of the masks of death. Beautiful Hellas 

Of old ! My eyes sweep o'er thy breast, where 

First I learned Life's lessons, 'mid scenes that charmed 

The eye and soul. I see again the caverns 

Wild, and grottoes wide, deep cut into the 

Mountain sides, and all the wide-spread plains that 

Lead along the seashore. Rich sweet grapes 

Adorn thy hills ; olives give thee light and 

Food ; fruits of gold, the lemon and the orange 

Delight the eye, and ruins of the magic 

Past lie scattered all around. The giant crests 

Of the Pindus Mountains, rise clear to view — 

They that held me spell-bound when a boy, and 

Sweetest memories lead me once again 

Along the banks of the Rhoupia River. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 57 

In a vision I can see the brave 

Pelasgi fade away from their walled-towns. 

Before the Hellenes march of conquest ; 

Athens rising up to mountain heights of power, 

And glory, guided by the matchless hand 

Of Pericles ; brave heroes tumbling from 

Their thrones of fame, into oblivion's realm, 

Before the mighty deeds of Hercules, 

And Theseus, and Solon dragging 

Down red-handed tyranny from ev'ry 

Seat. These scenes pass swift as an eagle's flight 

Before my eyes, mere flashes of the past, 

But still I thirst for more. Where, O where is 

Cadmus, he who brought the art of arts 

Into my country ; where Paris who stormed 

Helen's heart, and tumbled Troy in the 

Dust ; where Lycurgus, he whose laws made 

Sparta great — he who gave his country giants of 

Strength, with muscles trained and fine as steel? 

Where 
The heroes of famed Marathon, where 
Liberty arose amid the wreck of 
Persian hopes and hosts ; where Sappho's fires of 
Genius that once shown bright from Lesbos, and 



158 THE CONFESSIONS 

The sea-kissed isles ? Gone ! — all gone unto 
The silent homes of death ! Alas ! that all 
Should walk this bitter road ! Tis this that fills 
My heart with woe — 'tis this that spurs me on 
To seek a saving balm for Life!" 

Throughout 
The lonely vigils of the night, when half 
The world was wrapped in slumber sweet, 
He sat pouring o'er the lore of all the ancient 
Doctors of the past. Years flew by — those years 
Of fruitless study. Each day saw a new 
Thought bud to ripen on the morrow, and 
With the setting sun die out. At last one 
Night when the icy breath of Winter 
Swept o'er Ionia's sea, and howled throughout 
His dwelling, he arose with a shout of 
Triumph on his lips! His eyes blazed with the 
Fires within his soul, as he drank a glass 
Of purple liquid, and then wildly cried: — 
' "lis found at last! the world and Greece in all 
Their beauty and their power, now like serfs lie 
At m\ feet ! The hoarded gold of ages, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 159 

And undying fame are mine ! Death has no terrors 

now for 
Me ! I defy it ! Behold the talisman 
Here in my hand I" These, his last words. When his 
Mother came, he sat there dead. 



l6o THE CONFESSIONS 



MY DESOLATE HEART. 

""F WAS May. 

Ashy and leaden skies frowned down on me ; 
A cold penetrating north wind was blowing. 
Whe-ee-eow ! it whistled — the awnings flapping 
In the power of its breath, and the dust rising in 
Dull brown clouds before it. Men and women 
Clad in their winter coats and jackets sought 
Further shelter from the cold by burying their 
Chins snugly in the depths of their turned-up 
Collars. As they jostled past me on the yellow 
Stone pavement, with heads bent down and 
Bodies tipped far over, they appeared like little 
Trees in the woodlands bowing before the 
Heavy billows of the wind. I saw them all, but 
They appeared not to notice me. I shall never 
Forget them, for their pictures and the scenes 
They formed, are deeply photographed upon 
The mirrors of my desolate heart. Never did 
The desolation therein feel more damnable, 
Terrible and sad-tinged, than on this cold, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 161 

Cheerless morn when I gazed upon my 
People, the flowers in the garden of my 
Study, as they walked in the shadows of the 
Sky-kissing palaces of trade, amusement 
And vice. These stand on the bosom of 
Chicago, the bride of the lakes, but alas ! they 
Are not the buildings of my choice; 
They fill not my hungry heart with gems 
Of beauty ; they have too much the odor 
Of the prison, the house of misery, the palace 
Of shame. 

Leaving them far behind, I sauntered down the 
Winding road to the lake. The lines left by 
Wagon-wheels, and the impressions of horses' hoofs 
Were on the black surface, and all along on 
Both sides of the road, scattered in wild 
Confusion, were dull- white jagged rocks 
And red-cheeked bricks. As I walked on 
I saw the men filling in the lake with showers 
Of dirt and mud, from their old box-wagons 
And immediately I became an interested 
Spectator. Whatever my children do is always 
Interesting to me. Little did they dream 



1 62 THE CONFESSIONS 

That I stood by and watched them, poor 
Slaves that they are ; little did they think 
That I was to be their future liberator — 
I, the humble, misunderstood looker-on. 

One by one they threw their shovels in the 
Wagons and drove off for more loads, 
And I turned my eyes to the beautiful 
Sobbing sea. Its green silken garments 
Trimmed with silvery spray, rustled and 
Flapped on the broken sandy shore 
And seemed to tell me tales of far away 
Lands and people. Intently I listened 
And for my pains, was repaid a 
Thousand-fold. 

A mighty mother arose before my startled 
Eyes and placed her right hand upon my 
Shoulder. How I shuddered beneath the touch ! 
She laid her aching head upon my 
Bosom, the bulwarks of my desolate heart, 
And sobbed like the sea in its greatest woe. 
I knew her well and poured a shower of 
Consolation in her huncrrv ears. She was 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 163 

Born in the last sad lingering rays of the 
Roman Empire's setting sun, and her 
Lot was cast among a strange medley 
Of people. 

Moravians and Slavacks, 
Mygars, Poles and Russians, 
Slavonians, Croats and Servians, 
Jews, Gipsies, Italians, Latins and Hiavls. 
Her early hours of youth were strengthened 
By the matchless wisdom of Charlemagne, 
Those early hours she spent roaming 
Through the larch and alder woodlands, 
Or sitting 'neath the spreading arms of 
Gigantic oaks. Far up the wild 
Carpathians, the brown bear, the wolf 
And lynx found a home ; the gorgeous 
Golden eagle built its rude nest on 
The ragged brows of the Alps, and 
She was happy till she felt the iron hand 
Of Frederick the Great at her throat. Then 
Faded all the bright visions of the future 
From her breast and the land of the 
Leopolds and Hapsburgs. Long 



1 64 THE CONFESSIONS 

Pageants of princes, bishops, and barons 
Passed before her; Prince Eugene's sword 
Of genius swept the Ottoman power 
To destruction ; dark Austerlitz arose 
In glittering panorama of war — the 
Roar of Napoleon's victorious guns 
Fell upon her ear, sounding the death 
Of all her hopes ; Kossuth's magic 
Eloquence fired the drooping heart of 
Hungary with flames of patriotism, 
And yet through all these scenes and 
Deeds she struck not one true chord 
In the harmony of life. She shudders 
When she peers through the wild tempest 
Of mountains in Tyrol and sees 
Innspruck where Hofer, the patriot, burst 
The iron gates of tyranny, and led his 
People out to smiling fields of freedom. 

How she weeps upon my breast! 
From the dark forests of Bohemia she hears 
The cries for liberty ; all the past in 
Overpowering floods is rushing through 
Her heart ; she remembers well how years 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 165 

Ago we two walked on together beneath the 

Stormy skies of Europe, and saw the 

Theiss flowing swift to meet the Danube ; 

And how we crossed the bridge at Budapest 

And saw the multitudes gather round 

John Huss, while he tore the masks 

Of sham asunder and showed them 

The naked truth. Ah ! Austria ! Austria ! 

This is what I'd do for thee. I'd push 

Aside the misty veils and let thee 

See the truth. Long have I dreamt 

Of this while walking round Vienna's 

Grand old squares and palaces ; while 

Standing in Dalmatia where the 

Tempestuous waves of the Adriatic rush 

With showers of fury on its high and 

Ragged cliffs ; while gazing with 

Weary eyes on thy two hundred and sixty thousand 

Square miles. Thy past was nothing but 

A glittering — bloody performance; 

O may thy future lead thee to the joys 

Of the new love and cities — 



iC6 THE CONFESSIONS 

A flash of light — the screaming of sea gulls 
And she was gone. The north wind was 
Blowing still, and overhead the ashen 
Clouds moved on — but my heart was 
As desolate as ever. It found no 
Food to satisfy its hunger. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 167 



WHAT MUSIC IS. 

COMETIMES when I go forth in cities grand, 

And find the children of the Wilderness, 
Loitering in snares — the gaudy theatres, 
The festive parks, the gay ball-room, listening 
To sounds called music, I am filled with grief, 
With infinite grief. All that I dearly 
Madly love shrink from me as if from the 
Discoverer of leprosy. Not one in all 
The throng would walk with me, or hearken to 
My voice. "Life is stern, life is real, life knows 
No folding up of hands, or lying down, 
Or entertainments grand," I sadly murmur 
O'er and o'er, "and can it be that these poor 
Children realize not the deadly seriousness 
Of the life entrusted to them? Can it 
Be that they see not assassins dogging 
Every footstep day by day? Can it be 
That they find not the snare in the so-called 
Music of the hour — the snare that steals Time 
From Life and holds it back from discovery 



1 68 THE CONFESSIONS 

Of truth. O, my poor, poor children of the 

Wilderness, waste not a moment longer 

On these sounds. 'Twould be suicide ; 'twould 

Be folly, when all the music that ever 

Was, or ever will be, lies within you. 

You are so rilled with it ; it is so 

Abundant within you that it seems a 

Pity to find you listening to a host 

Of counterfeits, which is not music at 

All. True music, real music is nothing 

More than the thoughts and feelings that cross 

The harp-strings of your soul. Grander, truer 

Music exists not in the world, or in 

The gilded halls of Paradise. 

When you 
Read of Jim Bludsoe standing at his post, 
'Mid smoke and flames, "till every galoot was 
Safe ashore," you are thrilled by the deed of 
The hero — and this is music. When you 
Read somewhere of a man dissolving the 
Bands of wedlock, so that his wife may wed 
Another whom she loves far better than 
Himself, you are filled with mingled feelings 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 169 

Of sorrow, and admiration — and this is 
Music ! When you see a fireman risking 
His life to save a woman or a child ; 
When you hear of a man giving up his 
Life to save a friend; when you read 
Beautiful stories of "what might have been ;" 
When you read of people in the world who 
Have given up, and learned to wait ; when 
You read that little incident of Bruce 
And the spider; when you hear a mother 
Cooing to her first-born, you are thrilled, 
Through and through by the deeds, and this, 
O this is music, far more beautiful 
Than all the polished sounds blown from 
Instruments. 

But, of course, the music of 
Life is not good enough for us. We must 
Always lean to the artificial. We 
Must have polished sounds blown at us from 
Instruments, to remind us of the music 
In our bodies, and our souls. We must 
Worship the authors of sounds, whose names 
Have gone down on History's page as great 



I jo THE CONFESSIOXS 



Men ; we must admire their pictures, and 

Their statues in art galleries ; we must 

Bow down before these bandits as mighty 

Heroes, and scornfully cast aside the 

Real heroes of music — ourselves. Anything 

Of course, is better than ourselves, even 

If it is a bandit. How generous, 

How easy we are! How amusing. But 

Still more amusing is it, to listen 

To the different theories advanced on 

Every side, on the question of music. 

Some excited individuals who 

Wear snow-flake clothes and no brains, claim 

That music is the grandest thing on earth ; 

The food of life ; the art of arts ; but as 

Ignorance is bliss, of course, they do not 

Know that music is not art, and that there 

Is but one art — the art of Life, which has 

Never yet been cultivated, so we 

Must forgive them ; we must control ourselves. 

Others say (usually those who wear long 

Hair, and long coats, which make them look 

Like caricatures on the feminine gender), 

That the American people who have 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 171 

Cultivated a taste for light, catchy 
Airs, are as ignorant as ant-eaters 
In matters musical, but that the hour 
Will come, it is near at hand, when music 
Will be elevated (by what process, 
They do not say, human or superhuman), 
When ragtime and its close relations will 
Meet their Waterloo, and that we shall then 
Have the real thing — a veritable feast 
Of Wagner, Chopin, Beethoven, and 
Their kind. Methinks if I am not mistaken, 
We have already had a number of 
Courses served us from these distinguished 
Bandits, through the efforts of that charlatan, 
Theodore Thomas, now deceased. If Chicago ever 
Housed a charlatan, this man Thomas was 
One. But you will say he was successful. 
I grant that, as far as success is judged 
By the crafty old world, but bear in mind, 
That his success was due to the pride of 
The rich men of Chicago. They feared that 
If they dropped support of him, that 
Madamoiselle Boston, of baked-beans, and 
Long words fame, would take him to her arms, 



172 



THE CONFESSIONS 



And relegate Chicago to the backwoods, 
As far as art (?) was concerned. Fancy 
What a calamity that would be ! But 
There should have been no fear. They did not 
Lose Thomas. Charlatans are hard to lose. 
Empty-headed society, and pride backed 
By money, declared for him, and he remained. 
He remained to wield the baton o'er the 
Same old audience that always did attend 
His concerts ; the same old audience which 
Was made up as follows: Seventy per cent 
Which came to show its figures, and costumes ; 
Twenty per cent to see who was there — to 
Gaze around most vacantly, in hopes that 
Some newspaper would report that they were 
Among those present ; and ten per cent which 
Was insane enough to claim they understood 
The works performed. Such was the intellectual 
Audience before which the mighty Thomas 
Performed. But Thomas was a great man, 
And I must make allowances for him. 
He must needs have been a great man, for 
Chicago subscribed seven hundred thousand 
Dollars to keep him here. Proof positive ! 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 73 

It was a notable effort, and will long 

Be remembered in the annals of the 

City. Yes, Thomas was a great man, and 

Had to be saved to the city. The newspapers. 

In long editorials, and articles, said so. 

Ministers thundered from the pulpits that 

He should be retained. Ordinarily 

Sane business men, came to his rescue with 

Money, and when at last the coveted 

Amount was realized, there was great 

Rejoicing in the community. Yes, great 

Rejoicing, for Thomas was saved, but over 

On the great West Side, there was sorrow and 

Tears for a woman with a child at the 

Breast, had perished from starvation. What 

Matter! Why should such small things be 

Noticed by those bred in the atmosphere 

Of art. They had just raised 

Seven hundred thousand dollars and saved 

The mighty Thomas ; and these things considered, 

No woman, had a right to be poor, or 

To die. Yes ! Seven hundred thousand dollars 

Was raised to honor a bandit and his 

Crew, but the halt, the deaf, and the blind 



174 



THE CONFESSIONS 



Of the city were in no particular want. 

Of course not. And furthermore, the afflicted 

Should all be banished to some far off isle, 

Where they could not be eye-sores to the rich, 

And the art-stricken. Seven hundred thousand 

Dollars for Thomas, but not a penny 

For the poor ! Seven hundred thousand dollars 

For honor and weak intellects, but nothing 

For the orphans, and sane people who occupy 

Asylums. Seven hundred thousand dollars 

For music, just think of it! Seven hundred thousand 

Dollars for music, but nothing whatever 

For Life ! All to no purpose. O, that this 

Should come to pass ! And pray, what good 

Has music ever done for Life? What good 

Have Handel's Oratorios, Bach's Fugues 

And Preludes, the operas of Gluck and Verdi, 

The symphonies of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, 

Mendelssohn's Elijah, the thunders of Wagner, 

The waltzes and mazurkas of Chopin, ever 

Done for Life? Tell me, you who dare! They 

Have been, and are of no value whatever 

To Life. For years and years they have lured 

Life into half-way houses, and plundered 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

It of golden moments that can never be 

Restored, but they shall do so no more ! 

I, John Allen of Chicago, will block their 

Progress from this hour on ! I have come to 

Save you, you poor children of the Wilderness ! 

I have come to annihilate the millions 

Of bandits who surround, and plunder you 

At will, under the high-sounding titles 

Of Art, Music, and the devil knows what not. 

Will you accept me as your Saviour, or 

Will you still continue to perish, as 

Countless thousands have perished before 

You. Will you follow me where peace, 

And Rest can only be found, or will 

You still remain a prey to Bandits? 



175 



i;6 THE CONFESSIONS 



SILHOUETTES. 

; I 4 0-NIGHT I stand on the threshold of ages long 

gone by 
And behold a thousand fierce and valorous tribes 
Camped all around. Wild are the songs they sing 
And loud, yet eloquent, the voices of their chiefs as 
They tell of battles wild, and deeds of glory in the 
Past. The wind sweeps o'er the marshes and moans 
Through the dense forests. It tells them to beware ! 
Death and destruction are near at hand. But 
They heed not the warning, for are they not lords of 
The land? The enemy appears. They rise — they seize 
Their arms, and rush to conflict. Long are they 
Locked in deadly embrace. Like walls of steel they 
Hold their ground. But the sun had set upon 
Their skies of freedom ; their hour had come at 
Last. They yield — 'they break ! they fly ! and Caesar 
Lays Belgium at the feet of Rome. 

I take but a step forward, and lo ! Time with magic 
Brush has changed all things. Imperious priests 



OP JOHN ALLEN. 177 

And nobles walk upon the scene, the canals and 
Rivers of their bodies made sluggish with rich wines ; 
Their minds and hearts too much inflated with vanity, 
To permit them to labor for a living. The rich products 
Of the fields must be placed upon their tables at 
All hazards, by a lower order of mortals, necessarily 
Of less intelligence, and in the vernacular of Europe — 
Slaves. The Flemings bowed before this flood of 
Wind and despotism, but while they labored in the 
Fields, the fires of liberty burned bright within their 
Hearts. Secret meetings were held, where the senti- 
ments 
Of their minds found voice, and soon all Flanders 
Was a network of their Guilds. The dark night had 
Passed away. It drew its sable curtains up and 
Ushered in the dawn ! and lo ! there rose upon these 
Fertile lands, the stateliest town-halls in all the 
World — the monuments of Flemish liberty. 

Here 
Art, science, and civilization were crowned and 
Cultivated, while the whole of Europe was wallowing 
In pools of ignorance and barbarism ; here 
Liberty found its dearest home, while all 



178 THE CONFESSIONS 

Neighboring nations dwelt beneath the skies of 
Despotism. 

I draw aside the curtains, and lo ! a flash of 
Cities, a roar of emerald waves, and the far-famed 
Dyke at Ostend lies before me, with all its throngs- 
Thc rich, the gay, the fashion-plates of Europe, and 
My desolate heart and soul feel still more 
Desolate at the sight. The food for them is far 
Too nauseating. I do not fancy peacocks' raiment 
Covering the decayed virtues of walking flesh. 

I leave the throngs behind, and walk through the 
Wild dunes on the coast, where sea-weeds find a 
Home after their long voyage on the treacherous 
Waves of the North Sea. I pick up handfuls of 
Sand, and sift it through my fingers. I 
Contemplate the sea. Emerald hills are waving 
On its bosom. The spirit of unrest pervades 
It all, though the sun is shining down. Overhead 
Dark clouds are gathering. Slowly they come — 
Those floating mountains of the sky, and melt 
In one vast sable cloak that appears to 
Cover the entire world. Fear is 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 1 79 

On the deep and also in my heart. The wind comes 

down 
In shrouds of fury and lashes the sea in foaming rage, 
The thunder roars and reverberates along the 
Liquid mountain peaks. Down comes the rain 
Like an avalanche of silver spears on the shining 

armor 
Of the deep. Afar out a ship is in the grasp of the 
Struggling elements. It is in distress, for the mad 

waves 
Have wounded its sides and are sweeping its bulwarks 
Away. How pitifully it moans. It is all alone in 
Its woe, and is richly freighted with gold. No port 
Is in sight, no lighthouse near. Even the sailors that 
Line the shore, cry out, "A wreck ! a wreck ! 'Tis only 
Another wreck that's drifting by too late, too late to 

save." 
On it comes in agony. A giant wave lifts it high 
In air, and dashes it to atoms on a nest 
Of rocks, but ere it disappears from view 
The sailors see the gold they lost, and cry aloud, 
"Another opportunity lost, another treasure gone 
Through our indifference !" 



180 THE CONFESSIONS 

And thus it ever is. Precious gold is brought by certain 
Ships to sailors who leave them founder on the sea, 
And grasp with eager hands at counterfeits, for 
These they seem to dearly love. The whole world is 
Chasing phantoms, while hearts true as steel, 
Muscles of oak, and willing hands, are tossed 
Rudely aside, and crushed beneath the heels of 
Its folly! 

With desolate heart I turned away and traveled 
On. Proudly rose the old belfry of Bruges before me, 
And its chimes sent forth a shower of melodies 
That charmed my ears. The marvellous weavers 
Of the city left their looms and came out in 
The sunlight on the streets. They gathered there in 
Groups and spoke in guarded tones of the 
Marriage of Charles the Bold and Margaret of Eng- 
land. 
And some there were who had been to the feast, 
And they described in glowing terms, the glory 
Of the magnificent art-clad ducal halls, and the 
Unparalleled splendors of the banquet. As I mingled 
In the crowds, listening to the gossip, visions of 
Days gone by crowded thick and fast upon me. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 181 

There were old Flemish castles with retainers 
On the towers and walls reflected in old 
Flemish moats ; there were old Flemish market- 
Places, surrounded by old Flemish buildings 
From whose roofs protruded old Flemish gables. 
Below in the streets reigned the silence of the tomb. 

There was Ghent, the city of the Van Eyes, and the 

home 
Of the "Adoration of the Lamb." There was the 
Famous fortress built by mighty Baldwin Bras-de-Fer 
To hold back the Norman hordes. There was 
The statue of Jacob Van Artevelde in the 
Market place — the fearless leader — the magic-voiced 
Orator, whose dreams of a new republic were 
Dispelled by the breath of tyranny, like mists before 
The rising sun. There were the horrors of the 
Inquisition, made doubly horrible by that monster of 
Blood and crime, the Duke of Alva. There was 
The heroic defense of the People, by the Prince of 

Orange. 
There were long stretches of grass and waving corn- 
fields ; 
There were verdant meadows enclosed by hedgerow 



1 82 THE CONFESSIONS 

Trees. There were priceless flocks of sheep in Brabant. 
There were old libraries containing copies of the 
Rymbybcl, and the Spiegel Historicel in the Flemish 
Tongue. There were parades of ancient merchants 
On the docks of Antwerp. Flemish ships of trade 
Arrived, and departed for far off ports. 
There were the bitter hours of the revolution and 
The surrender of Chasse at Antwerp. 

There were the coal mines of Liege, and the far-famed 
Woods and promenades of Spa. There were the 
The ragged Ardennes hills dividing the waters 
Of the Meuse and Moselle. There was the 
Scheldt, flowing in the North to the Sea. 

My heart inclined to this, and as the crowds were 
Growing thicker, and their conversation still more 

animated, 
1 struck out to follow the river in its course. 
On the way I mused, "Yes ! this is the land of 
Rubens, who was one of the most polished and 
Accomplished brigands of the sixteenth century. 
From Italy and his Italian brothers he stole 
The sacred fire that burns with glory on his 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 183 

Canvas, and causes every Flemish heart to 
Glow with pride. But what did he for the 
Emancipation of his people? Did he paint the 
Dying groan of the miser, the crimson beads of the 
Poverty-stricken burghers' heart? or one flash of 
New love — the new way of Life? Why, one of 
These would be worth the whole wilderness of 
Altar pieces and other subjects he has given the world. 



184 THE CONFESSIONS 



WHAT THE DEVIL SAID. 
I. 
It was a day of beauty — tilled with sunbeams of gold ; 
Filled and thrilled with melodies of feathered war- 
blers — 
Filled with perfumed breezes of the distant sunlands — 
Filled with voices of silvery mountain streams — 
Filled with delicious charms for rustic lovers — ■ 
Filled with laughter — filled with joy, and a thousand 

hopes 
For peace at last. It was a day that did not harmonize 
With my lacerated heart and soul, yet I tried 
With all my strength to enjoy the charms it held forth 
With such generous hands. 

II. 

As I walked along the well-remembered paths, my 

heart 
Whispered "Beware ! eat not of these forbidden fruits ; 

they are 
Not for thee ; soon will they fade away like fairy 

dreams, 



OF JOHN ALLEX. 185 

And make thy chains of sorrow far heavier than 

before." 
But I heeded not the advice, and went my way with 
Songs upon my lips. Suddenly the blue sky was 
O'ercast with masses of black clouds. Loud roared 
The winds through the melancholy cypress trees. The 
Thunder bellowed wildly o'er the land, and the light- 
ning— 
The sword of the storm — flashed swiftly through the 
air. 

III. 
Down came the rain in cataracts, and lo ! through its 

sparkling curtains 
A dismal lake burst clear in view, and spread out 
Its waters at my feet — a lake shut out entirely from 
The world by a wall of mighty mountains — a lake 
With moss-capped rocks along its shores, and 
Sobbing waves upon its bosom — a lake that liked 
Not its dark surroundings, nor the sharp teeth of the 
O'erhanging crags that deeply wounded it and 
Forever denied it a sight of the green fields of the 

Earth. 



1 86 THE CONFESSIONS 

IV. 

Deeply did I sympathize with this poor forsaken lake 
Whose bosom trembled with ambition to leap o'er 
Its frowning barriers, and cast refreshing showers on 

the 
Drooping, thirsty weeds and flowers of the earth, and I 
Murmured faintly, "How much like my life are its 
Waters of hope and sorrow — how much indeed !" 
For hours I gazed upon it. There was such a 
Sadness in its depths that held me spell-bound on 
The shore, and its every sobbing wave seemed to 
Rise and fall with the beating of my heart. 

V. 

A vulture was its constant companion. It wheeled 

about 
In circles overhead, and manifested marvelous interest 
In its condition, and its vigilant eye and voracious 

appetite 
Allowed nothing of value to escape its bosom. 
O God ! A wave of wild resentment swept across my 
Heart, and I lifted up my hands in horror at 
The dark deeds of this feathered tyrant ! As I did so, 
The fury of the storm calmed down, but ere the 



OF JOHN ALLEX. 1S7 

Last angry echoes died out on the startled air, I 

Saw — the Prince of Darkness walking slowly 

By the sobbing lake. I shuddered ! He thrilled my 

heart 
With fresh forebodings, and I turned away to 
Shut the sight of him forever from my eyes — 
But some magnetic force arrested me, and soon 
Too soon, I found myself at his feet, crying out 
In tones of untold agony — "Mercy! mercy! for my 
Lacerated heart, sight and soul ! Away with these 
Ghastly phantoms of life that wound me so ! 
Too long have I been haunted by them ! Give me 
One scene of joy — of purity — of love — of truth — 
Of eyes looking calmly — fearlessly into eyes.'' 
My whole heart and soul were poured out in 
These passionate words, and impatiently I 
Awaited his reply. He did not speak for the 
Moment, but a strange smile illumined his 
Strange face. He laid his hand 
Upon my shoulder, and said, "Come with me. 
We will leave the valley and glance o'er the 
Fields beyond. Perhaps you may see that which 
You have prayed for." 



i88 THE CONFESSIONS 

VI. 

He led on. I followed, and when 

We came from out the valley and stood on the 

Rugged hills, he cried, in exultant 

Tones: ''Behold my fields! my gardens! my 

Flowers ! They will yield abundant harvest ! 

They are mine ! Let us go down and walk ' 

Among them I" Fires of delight were 

Gleaming in his dreaming eyes, and I shuddered, 

But followed in his footsteps. We stood in the 

Streets of a famous city, and heard the sound 

Of the castanets. Chained gangs of convicts 

Passed us by. There was a look of misery in the 

Hard lines of their faces that affected me to 

The point of tears, but the Devil only laughed, 

And, strange to say, I too laughed with him, 

And my tears vanished at once. It all seemed 

So strange to me. We strolled along beneath gigantic 

Oak and cork trees ; passed through sunny Malaga ; 

Saw the cactus on the rolling hills ; saw the 

Dreamy bosom of the Mediterranean ; saw the 

Mantillas and the brilliant scarfs — the frowning 

Rock-bound coast — the smiling cornfields and 

Meadows of Valencia — the green plains on 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 189 

Catalonia's coast, and Barcelona's noisy 
Harbors. 

VII. 

The coast was before us — the coast — an endless 
Chain of bays and gulfs — of hills that ran down to 
The sea — of sparkling towns that raised their heads 
High up in the charmed air. The country — a sea of 
Great plains — of hills that rose and fell like 
Stormy waves on the ocean blue — of wild Sierras that 
Tossed their snow-white heads among the stars. 

VIII. 
Side by side we walked along. We passed through 
The sun-scorched, shadeless streets of Cadiz, 
And at night strolled on the shores of the sea, and 
Drank the refreshing breezes from its bosom, while 
The sparkling, silvery laughter of its waters, charmed 
My ears. I saw the majestic Guadalquiver gleaming 
Like a thread of silver in its bed, and great plains 

stretching 
Away from its banks, covered with 
Flocks of goats, and troops of horses. The perfumed 
Melodies of orange and lemon groves were on the air, 
And nightingales thrilled forth their magic songs. 



I qo THE CONFESSIONS 

IX. 

As we entered the heart of past glories, I turned to 
The Devil, saying, "I walk no longer o'er the ruins 
Of the present, but by some enchantment seem carried 
Back to the age of chivalry and song. Tell me, 

tell me, dark destroyer of strongest hopes, did 
You gather in a harvest in those times, or did 
Any escape the snares you laid for them?" 

And he replied, "I gathered in a goodly harvest, 
And never a kernel lost." This, and nothing more. 

X. 

1 cried, "The Alhambra, with its magic towers — those 
Monuments of dazzling romance, rise up before me. 

They are 
Filled with seas of mighty warriors, whose shouts, 
Whose hymns to Allah reach my ears ! Within the 
Walls, beneath the delicate arches, beneath the massive 
Pillars, o'er the marble floors, roam scores of dainty 
Maids with sparkling eyes, with fairy forms orna- 
mented 
With girdles and anklets of gold. A feast of splendor 
Is in progress, but the sound of trumpets scatters 
Consternation o'er it all, and the maidens vanish 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 191 

Like ghosts before the dawn. I see the warriors with 
Flashing scimitars and daggers rush 
To the battlements, there to defend the FAITH, 
And shower victories at the feet of Boabdil. The 
Battle rages. It is swayed by lion-hearted heroism 
And black despair, but the Moors slowly recede 
Before the Christians' determined advance. Their 
Ranks are torn — their hopes all gone — but like heroes 
Slowly they retreat. But stay — the enchantment 
Fades from my sight, and those mighty scenes are 

gone. 
Still at my feet lie all their ruins. Tell me, O tell me, 

dark 
Architect of peoples' lives, did any here escape thy 

power ?" 
To which he replied, "I gathered in a goodly harvest 

here, and never a 
Kernel lost." 

XL 
"Granada ! — Granada was magnificently defended, 
But Granada fell. Gone are its glories. Gone, all 
The beauties of Alhambra. Gone — 'the luxury — the 
pride — 



IQ2 



THE CONFESSIONS 



The power that once crowned their brows. Side by 
Side in ruins sleep the heroes of the Koran and 
The Cross. The silvery Xenil and the lovely Darro 
Sing the pathetic memories of the past, and the wild 
Sierras clad in snow-white robes of Paradise, look 
Down upon the scene. Tell me, O tell me, dark 
Wanderer of the Night, in all these scenes, did 
Not one escape your snares?" And the Devil 
Answered, "I gathered in a goodly harvest here, 
And never a kernel lost." 

r 

XII. 
"O Spain ! Spain ! Step by step 
From the Phoenician cities, 
From the wild camps of barbarians, 
From the battle-scarred hours of the Koran and the 

Cross, 
From the days of the Arabian conquests, 
From the jeweled, the voluptuous seats of the Khalifs, 
From the days of Cardinal Ximines — the sacred 

schemer — 
From the days of butchers and bandits, Cortez and 

Pizarro — 
From the days of Lope de Vega and Cervantes, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 193 

From the days of the American War, 

Thou didst ever degenerate. Thy conquests of the 

past were made 
O'er naked savages, not o'er races equally armed ; 
Thy political success, by political lying and thieving ; 
Thy beautiful fields and gardens are not even the 

product 
Of thy hands — they were reared and kept by 
Foreigners, and thy possessions, all, all 
Falling away — the jewels of thy crown — a result of 
Thy tyranny. Sagasta's craft, nor Castellar's 
Patriotism could save thee. Thou hast fallen to 
The ground by the weight of thy sins ! 

XIII. 
I gaze afar and see the fierce Andalusian Bull rush 
O'er the sands of the arena ; the picadores ply the 

lances ; 
The banderilleros stick their darts in his tawny neck — 
The red mantle of the matador attracts his eyes of 
Fire — blindly, furiously he plunges at it — only to meet 
Death by the lightning flash of the sword concealed 
Beneath its folds !" 



194 



THE CONFESSIONS 



XIV. 
The Devil stopped my speech. He placed one 
Hand upon my shoulder and pointing o'er the 
Land with the other, said, " these are my fields, my 
Flowers, my gardens ; they are represented well 
In my great kingdom ; I wonder what Loyola now 

would 
Think of them ?" To which I said : "I would 
Not care a fig for his opinion on the subject. This 
Soldier-Priest from Guipuzcoa came with religious 
Fires brightly burning in his heart, but he too, like all 
Founders of systems failed to grasp the grand idea 
Of life. He was narrow-minded. He saw only in the 
World what he was pleased to term infidels and 

heretics. These 
Poor creatures must be converted at any cost. The 

rest of 
Humanity was all right, especially the crowned — the 
Wine-soaked butchers and bandits of Europe who 

spread 
The wings of protection o'er the Catholic faith. Why 
He did not seem to know that a bad Christian 
Needed more converting than a whole wilderness of 
Heretics! He saw not the work to be done 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 

Around him. Verily the eyes of the fool were in 
The ends of the earth. Opinions, indeed !" Thus 
At the close of a day of beauty, I found. 
Myself no nearer purity, love and truth than 
Buddha was to the secret of Life. 



195 



I 9 6 THE CONFESSIONS 



MY CONFESSION TO SATAN. 

The Devil stood by my side. I had a confession 
For him. His eager ears were ready 
To devour it. He understood me. O joy unconfined ! 
He understood me! — understood my nature — 
My heart. How few do that — (scarcely two out 
Of every thousand. He stood by my side. The 
Star-trimmed curtains of the night were lifted 
By the dewy hand of morn, and the splendid 
Sun poured all its brightness o'er the land, and 
He stood by my side. "Comrade," said I, "tq-day 
I tear off the mask from the monster ! it shall 
Crouch and hide no more from the public eye. 
It shall be laid bare before its own down-trodden 
People! Oh how it feeds and has fed off 
The liberties of these same people. But it shall 
Do so no more. Its course is run. For 
Many years I've watched its progress, 
Marvelling all the while that the oppressed 
Did not arise and strike it to the ground. 
And resolved that it must cease at once. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 197 

Sealed lips, cowardice, and reverence for the 
Throne shall no longer cast a shield before 
It. Open not your lips. Speak not. I'll speak 
First. I've a confession for you. I know 
You are far better versed than I in this 
Matter, but I long to unburden the accumulated 
Observations of years, that are stifling my 
Heart with bitterness. 

For years I walked upon the upland 
Grassy lawns, and down the sloping hills 
Where grazed the lowly sheep at morn, at noon, 
At night and ruminated all the time on the 
Bitter yoke laid on my people, while a 
Perfect tempest of sorrow raged through my 
Soul and heart, and I resolved to make 
Them free — free as the untamed mighty sea. 
I went forth. The fresh scent of lime leaves 
Floating on the waves of the air, the murmuring 
Of rivers, the sweet carol of the sylvan warbler, 
The fields arrayed in yellow, brown and russet 
Robes, the glorious Lakes o'er which sailed 
Snow-white swans with their little ones, the 
Famous old baronial halls ; the superstitions 



198 THE CONFESSIONS 

That haunted every nook and ruin ; the manor 
Houses nestling 'mong the patriarchal oaks, 
All, all formed a gorgeous panorama of 
Charms that mingled strangely in the sorrows 
Of my heart, and the resolutions underlying it. 

I went forth and scanned the high, the picturesque 
Cliffs of Dover, and listened to the owls hooting 
Among the rafters of ancient buildings, (Other 
Owls known as men and women hooted here before), 

and 
I walked o'er the rich woodlands, meadows, 
And hills of the Isle of Wight, and standing 
On the colored sands of the shore, gazed with 
Delight on the heaving bosom of the sea, and felt 
The fresh breeze make the blood tingle in 
My cheeks. But my delight lasted for a moment 
Only. 'Twas gone — it faded like the gorgeous 
Sunset pictures that light up the western isles 
With harmonies of gold and fire, like sweet 
Melodies that die out upon the air. Then fell 
The weight of bitterness upon my heart. 
It made my flesh tremble. Alas ! I knew it 
Now too well! I must tread the vale of 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 199 

Tears alone. In the throes of my unutterable 
Woe I opened wide my arms to welcome 
Death, for I felt that it must be near at hand, when 
The sun cast my shadow on the ground — the 
Perfect shadow of a cross. Then I knew my 
Mission well, and fell fainting, moaning 
On my face and hands among the 
Storm-swept rocks. How long I remained 
There I know not, for I seemed to have been 
In the grasp of dreams, but when I struggled 
To my feet, the sea gulls were wildly screaming, 
The hoarse voice of the ocean roaring, and 
The twinkling foot-lights of heaven sweetly looking 
down. 

I went forth enveloped in my woe ; I traversed 
The winding paths of the old oak forests, and 
Woe was all around me. It was in the air. 
The poor old oaks were filled with it. They trembled 
With it. Their green heads drooped low. Their arms 
Were raised to Heaven for mercy. Their gnarled 
Sinews were mute evidences of the woe that coursed 
Through their bodies. Woe, woe, and all was woe. 



200 THE CONFESSIONS 

I stood on the spot where in days of old the 
Drnids in their flowing robes of white offered up 
Human saerilices to the sun, but marveled 
Not that they found means of subsistence 
In the dual role of lunatics and scoundrels, 
Because we still have Druids among us in 
The twentieth century priests, — we still support 
Them, and therefore should make no outcry 
Against the past. We are children of woe, and 
Cheerfully do we add to it. 

I went forth, and entered the old Bedford jail 
Where sat John Bunyan writing his marvelous 
Poem. I greeted him. "I am an American,'' said I, 
"I am a Democrat in the fullest sense of the 
Word. My name is John Allen. Like you I 
Was born for great deeds. Like you I was 
Imprisoned. Like you I am determined to 
Succeed. But to gain that success, I must beg 
One gift of you — to see — to examine the material 
Out of which you fashioned the armor of 
Your immortal Christian." To which he replied, 
"Be it so, your wish is granted. His armor 
Was forged from chains of woe, and polished 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 201 

Bright with iron-will — the best armor in the 
World. It resisted Apollyon's fiery darts 
And carried him in triumph to the gates 
Of the Celestial city. I cannot show you the 
Materials, because they are invisible, but this much 
I will say — they are treble the strength of finest 
Steel.'' Then he turned his head away and began 
Writing. "Very well," said I, "I will girdle on 
The armor that you name, and when next we meet 
It shall be side by side on equal ground." 
We parted. The iron-gates of the prison clanged 
Behind me, and I know no matter how 
Brave my resolutions were, I must have been 
Very pale. Already the burning chains of woe were 
upon me. 

I went forth and saw the desperate struggle 
Of the Roman and Briton for the throne, the 
Onward march of the Saxon and Angles for 
Their rights — the fierce onslaughts of the Picts 
And Scots upon the Britons, and then with 
Eyes of horror saw the conquering Danes 
Sweep on with fire and sword leaving 
Naught but death and destruction in their wake. 



202 THE CONFESSIONS 

"Can these be men," said I, "who so 
Fiercely assault and rob each other, or 
Are they packs of animals from the wild 
Dens and forests?" And my heart answered 
Whispering, these are the ancestors of the 
Modern business men, whose refined cruelty 
Outshines their brutality, like the sun outshines 
The stars! 

I went forth into the great country, and my 
Heart was filled still more with sorrow at what 
I saw. O comrade } the real idea of life here too, 
Was lost to view by the crew of bandits 
And assassins who dared to rule the 
People. Hold up the mirror ! gaze therein, 
From the first down to the present ruler. 
What do you see? Can you find one trace 
Of brains in all their modes of governing? 
I can — steel, bullets, poison, treachery, 
Powder and gold were the brains they 
Employed — these blood-stained bandits who 
Wore the crown. Think of it — think of it ! — 
These down-trodden isles called the Butchers, 
Bandits and Plotters GREAT— just think of it 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 203 

And marvel ! And what a magnificent gallery 

Of GREAT men they were — William the Conqueror 

Who made a desert of his lands to crush 

The voice of the people — of justice; Henry II., the 

Murderer and coward ; Thomas a' Becket, 

The SAINT — and is a saint made of such 

Stuff as the uncompromising schemer of 

The throne of Rome? Pope Adrian IV., who 

Cooly handed over Ireland to the English, 

He claiming the right to bestow kingdoms 

On whoever he pleased. Imagine a follower 

Of Christ in this worldly position ; Richard I., 

Whose brains were in his brute strength ; 

King John, the imbecile; 

Henry VIIL, the sultan of English kings, whose 

Thriving little harem was either cast 

Aside in disgrace, or met death at the block; 

Elizabeth — the female plotter, whose hands 

Were dyed in the blood of Mary, Queen of Scots ; 

Cromwell, the cruel, the ambitious, who could 

See no one but Cromwell in the mirror 

Of the world — Cromwell the tyrant — in whose 

Death England lost one of her greatest butchers; 

Charles II., a man? — ? ''without will-power 



204 



THE CONFESSIONS 



Or principles — who was the proud possessor of 

Two virtues — murder and vice ;" 

Marlborough, who loved gold more than 

He loved his God — jMarlborough whom the 

Historian calls great ! Yes, he was, if murder 

And slaughter and greedy ambition are 

Great! Comrade, would you consider a 

Man great, if he set fire to his neighbors' houses, 

Laid waste their fields, and then marched 

In triumph o'er their ruins ; 

William Pitt, whose fame rests on 

Towers built of the sighs and broken hearts 

Of the poor, and the robberous taxes wrested from 

them ; 
So you see, Comrade, the real idea of life here was 
Lost to view, by this gang of cut-throats, notoriously 
Known as royal rulers. But I have unmasked 
Them. The historian, and professional writers 
May call them what they please ; they may adorn 
Them with gold-lace, velvets and gems, but the 
Naked truth proclaims them Bandits, Robbers and 
Murderers, and the naked truth should be exposed 
All hours of the day and night for use of the 

Public eye. 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 205 

I went forth again, and nothing seemed 
More pitiable and amusing than the distress 
Of the great mass of the people — the English people, 
Men of muscle and brains, in seeking a royal 
Heir to the crown to rule over them whenever an 
Old dynasty died out. The sighs, the tears, the 
Prayers, they sent forth on these occasions is 
Something that passes the boundaries of belief, 
Especially when they possessed in their own ranks, 
Hundreds, nay thousands, of leaders far superior 
To any creature (?) with the blue-blood coursing 
Through his veins ! By the way what special brand of 
Flesh and earth are these cut-throats called 
Kings made of, anyway? 

I went into London, — London filled with crime — 
London, seated on the majestic Thames — 
London, o'er whose streets flow the tides of life 
And death — London enveloped in its gowns of 
Fog — London, with its palaces, the homes of 
Ancient vice and modern ignorance — the 
Refuge of high-class bandits called Lords, Earls, 
Kings ; London, where Addison and Milton 
Lived and suffered — where Shakespeare acted; 



2o6 THE CONFESSIONS 

Where Johnson and Lamb found inspiration ; 
Where Westminster and St. Paul's tower aloft 
In pride and grandeur; London, whose 
Ever-enduring tower stands out a saintly 
Monument of the past compared with its 
Present career of robbery, snobbery and vice 
But, Comrade, what did I find London? — 
A glittering gigantic fraud, like all the rest ! 

While wandering through its streets, I thought of 
The great wars that were launched from its 
Heart, and marveled that its heart was still 
Beating, for 'twould be enough to break any country's 
Heart to achieve the SUCCESS that glitters in 
Its crown. Success in war, to England always meant 
Volumes; it was necessary no matter what the cost 

might be. 
For example take the Napoleonic war. It 
Was a great success. The English army backed by 
Europe — triumphed ! Mark ! It was a tremendous 
Success ! It was a magnificent spectacular perform- 
ance! 
It only cost $4,000,000,000, and the people (audience) 
Appeared at the box office to pay the taxes — oh, I 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 207 

Mean to buy the tickets for the show. The perform- 
ances 
In the Soudan and India too were splendid 
Affairs crowned with special triumphs ! Also they 

were 
Highly instructive. They proved what no one would 
Ever have dreamed of — that a large army well 
Fed, well clothed, with plenty of money and ammuni- 
tion 
And well-armed to the teeth with the latest improved 
Weapons was able, after a desperate struggle 
To hold its own against the dark-skinned 
Habitants, and finally to crush out their liberties — 
To enslave them. This was indeed a TRIUMPH ! 
But as a performance, it is not to be compared 
At all with the one with the Boers in South Africa. 

Here 
Was a triumph that is certain for all time to 
Make an Englishman's heart beat with pride, 
And his chest swell out with enthusiasm. 
The only thing that caused any uneasiness 
Was the overwhelming numbers of 
The Boers. This, the British Generals thought, might 
Interfere with their plans and have something 



208 THE CONFESSIONS 

To do with prolonging the war, which proved to 
Be the case later on. But they pushed on heroically 
With their handful of men — pushed on to 
The scenes of their splendid triumphs at 
lYlodderspruit, Magersfontein, and Colenso. 
Everywhere the Boers gave way. Their countless 
Regiments could not prevail against the valor 
Of the British few. Success crowned all their efforts. 
Buller had crossed the Tugela, though it did 
Consume some time in the operation, because the 

Tugela was 
Very wide; Kitchener — the butcher of naked-savages 
With a few thin columns had driven the Boer hordes 
Before him, and captured all their guns, and last 
But not least, the star event of the war, the greatest 
Triumph of military genius, of this or any other age 
Fell to the lot of Lord Roberts. At Paardeberg 
With a mere handful of 40,000 or 50,000 men 
And some fifty cannons, he succeeded after 
Nine days in crushing Cronje and his 
Overwhelming force of 8,000. Consider what 
The great Roberts could have done, had he 
One hundred thousand men at hand? It was 
A magnificent performance, and all Englishmen 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 209 

Certainly must feel thrills of glory shooting through 
Their hearts, when they march up to the tax-office 
To pay for it. But of course good shows cost 
High admission fees, and this must be borne 
In mind. The South African show only cost 
One hundred millions, and some few thousand 
Troops. This, comrade, is the confession I longed 
To tear from my tattered heart, and soul, to 
Launch into your ears ! 'Tis done, and I 
Shall go my way, but should you ask me 
Further on the subject, my one reply would 
Be: "The world is filled with bandits, — 
But the greatest of them all are found in 
England." 



210 THE CONFESSIONS 



I TRY TO CAST OFF MY WOE. 

A FAR among the highlands, clad in kilts 

And plaid I roam, I and my unspeakable, 
Unendurable woe. We roam and scan the 
Scenes together, for we are old companions, 
And where'er my steps may lead, it is sure 
To follow. Therefore I find it gratifying to know 
That something is faithful to me — even if 
It is only my unspeakable woe. On, on, I walk where 

the 
Fragrant purple heather gently 
Sways beneath the garments of the wind ; on where 
Hidden brooks are babbling o'er the rocks with sweet- 
est 
Melodies ; through lonely mountain glens, and 
Old ruined towers among the sea-beat rocks. 
I walk on. The curlew's lonely call is sounded 
On the breeze, and my woe — my woe sits heavy 
In my heart. 

It is weighing me down ! It is tearing out the 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 21 1 

Vitality of my body ; it keeps me tossing in a 
Wild sea of unrest. I gaze into the eyes of a 
Passing man, and he turns his head away ; 
I gaze into the eyes of a passing woman, and 
She shrinks back from me; I gaze into the 
Eyes of a child, and the child, in distrust, turns 
Its back on me ; I look into the eyes of a dog 
But he returns the look unflinchingly 
With his honest brown eyes ; he thrusts his 
Cold wet nose into my hand, and licks it with 
His tongue — he is my friend — the only one I have 
In all my woe. So then I can claim the friendship 
Of a dog. That much is left to me out of the 
Wreck of my hopes. That much is given me 
From the false cold world, the love of a dog. But 
That is more than I can ever hope for from the 
Two-footed dogs with which I am surrounded. They 
Boo-hoo, bark, yelp and bite from the mangers. 
And though they hate me, I love them with the 
Deepest, truest love that e'er found shelter in a 
Passionate heart. 

So across the heather and bluebells I roam 
Chained to my heaviest woe ; here among scenes 



212 THE CONFESSIONS 

Of the historic past ; here where Agricola and 
His Roman legions were hurled back by the 
Fierce Picts and Scots; where the tyranny of 
Edward I. went down in defeat on the field of 
Stirling, and raised Wallace to the height of fame; 

and 
Where Malcolm mounted the throne only to 
Prostitute it to the Norman Bandit. Thrice 
Did he promise homage to William for that throne 
And thrice did he break that promise. I find no 
Fault because he endeavored to become 
Independent of Britain, and the bandit who 
Ruled it, but I condemn his base infidelity 
And I say a promise is a promise — it is a sacred 
Thing, and should not be made if it is not 
Intended to be kept. But I suppose I must accept 
This as an example of Scottish character, for Scottish 
Character and history are filled to the overflowing 
With such examples of weakness, treachery and folly. 
Take for instance, Mary Queen of Scots, or as it 
Should read, Mary Queen of the Scots, and ask 
What were the Scots dreaming of when they 
Elevated that creature of deception to the throne? 
A woman who posed as a model of virtue, 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 213 

Who was so steadfast in the Faith of Rome, 
That she would not listen to the teachings of 
John Knox, but readily dabbled in 
Treachery, immorality, murder and numerous 
Husbands. Or, take Bruce, and that little story 
Of the spider and Bannockburn, which may 
Appear all right in print, and ask why the 
Discerning Historian always sings his deeds with the 
Choicest words of poetry and romance ? I know if I 
Was chosen to write his history, and to exalt him 
To the altar of Fame, I would first recall 
Him from the tomb to undo the treacherous 
Murder of Red Comyn — to give back the 
Life he took. 

As I wander on with tottering steps, the wind 
Sweeping o'er the Locks and Firths seems to 
Whisper of the bitter past — of the treachery of the 

Red Douglas, 
And the Black Douglas and of the James's 
Who never did rest well at night because they 
Lived in mortal dread of the highland clans, 
And the fierce bordermen — the wild outlaws, the 

murderers, 



2i 4 THE CONFESSIONS 

As they were pleased to term them. But I murmured 
These clans and bordermen, cannot 

Be compared at all with the murderous, high-class 
Bandits who wore the Crown of Scotland ! 

Afar I hear the Piper playing Bonnie Doon, 

And tears rise in my eyes, as they always do 

When that pathetically beautiful melody strikes 

My ear. Some black-faced sheep move 

Over the heather-crowned hills; some pheasants idly 

Stand beside the hedges, and snipes are calling 

And drumming in the distant marshes. The 

Voices of Nature reach me from all sides, and hurt 

Me, hurt me for they open half-healed wounds in my 

Woe-stricken heart. Slowly I walk on. I cross the 

haunts 
Made famous by Walter Scott, the hero of poetry and 
Romance and seem again to see his gallery of 
Heroes all around. Noble poet ! Sleep on ! Sleep 
In the robes of fame, for the whole world loves 
You and your memory. 
Who has read your 
Works, from the "Lady of the Lake" to the "Heart 

of Midlothian," 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 215 

Without transports of delight and eyes bedimmed 
With tears? Every line touches the heart with a 
Gentle sadness, that can hardly be explained, 
Unless it be a longing in our hearts, to bring- 
Back the scenes of the past, scenes of romance 
And chivalry, and to crowd them into the 
Damnably empty days of the present. Glorious 
Hero — sleep on — rest, for your work was 
Magnificently done — you have given more food 
To the brains of the world, than all the gold 
And wheat-fields on its surface. 

Across the heath and rugged mountains, 
Across the Grampian peaks I speed on — on 
To the beautiful South with its green-clad plains, 
Its glassy streams, its sea of cornfields, its 
Curving hills and sweeping vales black with herds 
Of cattle ; its charming meadows ; its wild dells 
Of murderous depths ; its craggy rocks and roaring 
Torrents ; its barren moors and Cheviot Hills — • 
Wildly, wildly I speed across the Tweed and 
Aye, across the Firths and Sounds, and stand at 
Last in Ayrshire, and bow in reverence to the 
Monuments of Robert Burns, the Heart of Scotland, — 



216 THE CONFESSIONS 

Burns whose poetry, every line of it 
Is but the rising and falling of a passionate 
Heart. Go read his "Cotter's Saturday Night," his 
"Annie Laurie," his "Highland Mary," and see 
The intricate workings of a heart, disguised in 
Lines of poetry. 

But my wild rush across the breast of Caledonia 

Did not release me from my omnipresent 

Woe. Like balls of fire and lead it sat 

Within my heart. O, ye 

Divinely beautiful Scotchmen living 'neath 

The red-roofed cottages in the vales or in the 

Crowded cities of Edinburgh and Glasgow — my 

Sufferings, my life, my heart, my soul, my brain, 

Are all for ye ! To ye I bring a message grander 

Than any message yet written in the book 

Of Life — it is the message of the New Love ! 

O cast it not aside, if ye 

Would have Paradise on earth and know the 

Great truth — the real idea of Life, and your 

Relation to it. Daily my woe grows heavier. It is 

Made so by your indifference, and the chains 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 



217 



Of bondage that you so willingly now wear. Let me 
Burst them asunder and give you freedom!" 

But — shall I be strong enough to bear the burden of 
The World alone ? Methinks it is so heavy now that 
I fain would cast it all aside. "But you cannot" 
Says my Woe, "unless — unless you secure 
Someone to bear your burden. Then you can 
Go your way free and contented." A flash of joy 
Went through my heart, at the words, "secure someone 

To bear your burden." And I replied, "that I 
can do, but did not 
Dream of it till now, for I remember well, 'twas here 

I saved 
A man's life at the risk of my own. 'Twas on 
Iona's isle. A fierce storm was raging 
And I was walking on the shore, when suddenly 
A huge rock from the heights above came tumbling 

down, and 
Knocked him senseless in the jaws of the maddened 
Sea. Horrified at seeing a human creature in 
Full possession of his faculties struck down at my 
Side, and in danger of drowning, I plunged boldly 
Into the foaming waters, and after hours of 



2 1 8 THE CONFESSIONS 

Weary battling, succeeded in bringing him safely 
To the shore. His gray-haired mother wept with joy 
At his rescue. She bent down to gaze on the face 
Of her son, when suddenly a piercing shriek burst 

from 
Her lips, and wildly she moaned, and beat the sands 
At his side, with her hands. With terror trembling 
Through my frame, I knelt down beside her and 

asked, 
"Is he dead?" She shook her head moaning, 
And replied, "No he is not dead, but he might 
Just as well be, for he can never face the world 
Again. O my poor boy ! my poor boy !" I gazed 
At him, and saw that the skin was badly torn 
From his face, so I lifted him up and carried 
Him into his mother's house. She followed me 
With streaming eyes, and watched my every 
Move. There was a look on her face, that I shall 
Never forget. It plainly said, "give me one ray 
Of hope for my son's recover} 7 , and I will lay down 

my 
Life for you." The doctor had been sent for and 
Was now working over the wounded man. He 
Told the gray-haired mother he could restore her 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 



219 



Son's features, if some one would allow a sufficient 

quantity of skin 
To be cut from their arms, and grafted on his face. 
Hope and despair alternately lit up the poor mother's 
Features. She looked at me, and I turned away ; 
But somehow she came before me, and looked 
Again. Then I knew my duty. I bared my 
Arms and told the physician to cut the skin 
From them, and I stood the ordeal well, but for 
Many weeks I went around swathed in 
Bandages, and was very weak. The young 
Man recovered, and it was with deep 
Satisfaction that I gazed on his face, which 
Appeared as well as ever. No one on looking 
At him would ever suspect that his features Were 
Once in terrible revolt. And his mother gazed 
Upon them long and earnestly and then showered 
Caresses and blessings on my head, which most 
Deeply affected me. I passed many happy days 
With them, and when the hour at last arrived for 
Me to go, I found myself choked up with tears. 
The last farewells were spoken, but the young man 
Took me aside and said: "I am poor — 
Very poor, and I feel as if I can never reward you 



220 THE CONFESSIONS 

For what you have done for me. All I can give 
You now is gratitude, to which my mother's 
Is added. But the day may come, when you 
May need the hand of a friend to guide you through 
Some battle of life, and when that day arrives — call 
On me no matter where you are, and be assured 

that 
You will not call in vain — farewell !" 
Years have passed since then, but I feel 
Now as if the day he spoke of was at hand. 
I long so to cast aside the woe that is fast 
Consuming me — body and soul. At last! 

At last ! I shall escape my woe !" 

But even as I journeyed on I heard 
My woe laughing — a low sarcastic laugh 
That opened a fresh wound in my heart. 
But terrible as it was, it did not halt me 
In my purpose — for my purpose was strong 
As adamant. By Cona's streams and rocks 
I wandered, and I seemed once more to hear 
The wild genius of Ossian sweeping o'er the 
Scene with the sound of a thousand harps, 
Drifting, piling, curling, ghostly curtains of mist 



OF JOHN ALLEN. 221 

Hung o'er crags and storm-swept peaks of 
Morven; Clouds of Starlings flew overhead, 
Their dark-green armor glittering in the gorgeous 
Showers of the sun, and the smell of new-mown 
Hay was on the breeze while flocks of feathered 
Warblers filled all the air with flowers of 
Melody. Above was the deep blue sky, 'neath 
Which hung broken clouds of lilac trimmed 
With gold, and the sea was but one vast 
Plain of quivering, polished silver, in whose 
Center stood one white sail. Sea-gulls screamed 
Wildly from the crags, and jackdaws croaked 
From the heights above, and I — I stood at 
Last by the home of my friend — my salvation. 
He clasped me to his bosom, and I told him 
Why I came, but — he stood still as if struck 
Dumb and made no reply. His 
Gray-haired mother drew near, and I asked 
My woe — "Why does he not speak?" and my 
Woe said, "He dares not, if he did he would 
Take up your burden out of the fullness of 
Gratitude — but his end would be dreadful." 
"His end would be dreadful," I repeated in a hollow 
Voice, and then Woe asked, "Would you like 



222 THE CONFESSIONS OF JOHN ALLEN. 

To see it?" Fire flashed from my eyes — "yes," said 
I, "let me see the — the — end." He led on, and 
Pointed to the skull and bones of a man 
Bleaching on the sea-beat shore. I crouched behind 
A rock like a hunted beast. "Do you want 
Him to lift your burden?" Asked my Woe. "He 
Is the staff of life on which his dear old mother leans. 
Without him she will totter and fall to the earth." 
But I said to myself, again and again, stroking 
My breast, ''have I not shed my life's blood for 
Him? Have I not given the skin from my body 
To save his life?" Then as he and his mother 
Drew near, Woe asked, "do you want them 
To speak?" and I cried out aloud, "why don't 
They say something?" "They are awaiting 
Your decision," was the reply. The mother 
Looked at me, but I shrank back from 
Her gaze. "Shall they speak," whispered Woe. 
"No ! No ! No !" I cried out in an agony of terror. 
"Then you are satisfied?" was the next query. 
I clutched my hand at my tortured heart, 
And faintly I said — "yes !" then fell sobbing 
On the storm-swept rocks. 



BEFORE THE GATES. 223 

BEFORE THE GATES. 
A T last ! At last ! We stand before the gates ! 

The promised land, the City New is near at 
Hand ! Come, ye cripples of Life's Woe, and here 
Enjoy the New Life in its beauty, and 
Its glory. Lay aside your crutches, and 
Your staffs, for they will be of little use 
Within the sacred walls. How useless here 
Shall be all science, and all art ; how useless 
Every creed that now infests the world; how 
Useless all the fads that have disgraced 
Society; how useless all the books 
That have been written; how useless even- 
College and library in the land; how 
Useless all amusements, and theatres ; 
How useless palaces, and buildings grand 
Or humble ; how useless inventions of the 
Day. Everything the world holds dear shall pale 
To insignificance at the walls of 
My New City. Come ! I throw the gates wide 
Open ! Enter ye who love salvation, and 
Despise the world of foul hypocrisy 
And woe, while I briefly go o'er the ground 
We traveled on thus far. 



224 THE NEW CITY - 



THE NEW CITY. 

T STOOD upon a height remote from all, 
And watched the changing scenes go by, 
I saw the misery of earth; 
I marked the seasons have their birth 
Then fade, as stars fade in the sky 
When o'er them, summoned by the trumpet-call 
Of storms, the clouds, unrolled, 
Obscure them, fold by fold. 
Then dawned a presence on my sight 
And bade me read Life's dream aright — 
To ponder o'er its mysteries, 
And all its questions solve ; 
With earnestness and deepest thought 
To note the pain and anguish wrought, 
As wrecks are wrought in raging seas, 
No matter what it might involve. 
Below me, cities in their pride, 

Were lighted by the sunset's glow 
That touched with fire the hovel's side 
And burned on palaces of snow. 



THE NEW CITY. 225 

I saw the throngs wend here and there 
Bowed with their burdens of despair, 
The young, the old, the foul, the fair. 

All to their own appointed way 

Home-hastening at shut of day ; 
And, as I mused upon their lot, 
What now should be, and what was not, 

The spirit taught my lips to say 
These words : "O, children of the earth ! 
Down-trodden from your very birth, 
Cradled in misery supreme, 

The puppets of a godless law 

With every noble deed in awe ! 
Through ages kept in ignorance, 
Impeded in all true advance 

To make for human good ! 
Behold the sweetest flower of all 
Clouded, as with a deadly pall, 
Thro' shackles that around her fall, 
And keep in dark ignoble thrall 

Thy heart, fair Womanhood ! 
The curse of Custom binding still 
God's souls — their mind and will — 
Their very living breath until 



226 THE NEW CITY. 

The world is but a mockery 

Of what is called Society ! 
The helpless little ones who bear 

The burden of a parent's curse; 
Thro' all the troubled years to share 

Its ignomy, and rehearse 
From hour to hour in sunlight fair, 
In storm and calm, 

The lesson of a dreadful woe 
For which there is no healing balm 

From skies above or seas below — 

No refuge from the vengeful foe !" 
All this I saw : Foul forms of disease, 
And joyless homes, like leafless trees, 

Stripped of the happiness they knew 

In far-off days, when lives were true, 
Ere vampire-winged Hypocrisy 

Brooded above the haunts of men 

And made of homes a demon's den! 

Unmasked to me was every face, 

And robbed of every spacious grace 
That artifice could there implant! 
"Oh, that a heart of adamant 

Would strike," I murmured in my heart 



THE NEW CITY. 227 



"These horrid bonds apart ! 
These chains that have embittered Life, 
And held it seethed in loveless strife! 
Brought woe into a beauteous world, 
And humankind to misery hurled ! 
Yea, stifled e'en the vital spark 
With murderous hands of infamy 
In what God had ordained to be — 

Weak man defying Deity !" 
"Is there no help?" my spirit cried: 
Shall every good thus be denied? 
Shall every law thus be defied? 
And must the world to chaos dash 
E'en as the livid lightning's flash, 
In swiftness to its final doom 
Amid the tempest and the gloom? 
All this for ages 
Writ on earth's pages ! 
His book Eternal 
Marred by infernal 
Vices and woes ! 
His judgment slandered, 
His purpose squandered ! 
Weeds in profusion 



228 THE NEW CITY. 

By man's delusion 
(How they have flourished!) 
Tenderly nourished, 
Where God placed a rose ! 
Who shall from evil deliver 
The earth of its ills? Who the giver 
Of all good shall be to mankind 
Thus groping, deluded and blind, 
In the deeps of despair and of gloom, 
In the horror and mould of the tomb? 
Out of the silence I heard 
The sound of a marvelous word 
That spoke to my heart as I gazed 
On this picture of Death, all amazed ! 
"Behold !" and all changed was the scene 
From its turbulence into serene 
And beautiful Peace ! Far below 
A city as white as the snow 
I saw in the soft crimson glow 
Of the last gleam of glorious day 
As it melts into darkness away! 
A city whose walls shut within 
No vestige of sorrow or sin ! 

Where children of men were content 



THE NEW CITY. 229 

With all the Eternal had sent ! 
Where hovered with wings of a dove 
The sweetness and beauty of Love 
From Heavenly regions above ! 

Where brooded the spirit of Rest, 
As broodeth a bird on its nest ! 

Where Nature's law, turned not awry, 

Xo dweller therein could defy ! 
"I come as a Saviour to children of men!" 

This legend inscribed on its gates I beheld, 
'Twas written as if with luminous pen 

In flame, and my gaze with its beauty compelled ! 

Its dwellers were parted, I saw, 

By choice of immutable law. 

Xo mingling of sexes, a wall 

Divided them both, past recall ! 

Each Life's busy pathway pursued 

With sweet Duty's ardor imbued. 

No discord ; but harmony there, 

And loveliness beyond compare ! 

All strife had departed, and pain, 

All greed, and the struggle for gain, 

And sighing for things that were vain. 

Erased was all sorrow and stain ! 



230 



THE NEW CITY. 



Nevermore could eyes of man 

Faces of womankind scan ; 

Nevermore Love's glance be theirs — 

Love and its passionate cares 

Banished were from human souls 

That in sweet peace found true goals. 

Thus the old Love passed away 

But in its place, holding sway, 

Came the New Vow to protect, 

And never on earth to subject 

To torture the innocent child 

Into this being beguiled 

As in the inhuman, dark Past! 

True to the Vow was the call 

Henceforth in hearts of them all. 
No degredation marked its brand 

Upon fair woman's brow ; 
No Vice with harsh and scathing hand 

Made humankind to bow, 
And drink the dregs of fierce despair; 

But Chastity ruled everywhere. 
And Slander's tongue was ever hushed, 
Vile Scandal's wiles were downward crushed 
Disease walked not those streets of Peace, 



THE NEW CITY. 231 

And Death sought not there to increase 

His clutch upon the race, 

But hid his ghastly face 

Within the hallowed place ! 

Virtues bloomed like flowers, 

Amid these human bowers ; 

And Artifice, unknown 

With no false glitter shown ! 

The tinselled glow of art 

In hearts here had no part ; 

Convention's arbitrary rule — 

The guidance of the fool — 

Held here no iron sway, 

Drove Wisdom not away ; 

But in obscure decay 

Forgotten was forever, 

And resurrected never ! 
The sins of proud Society — 

The petty tricks and shams of old — 
Were practised not; these eyes could see 
The tinsel 'neath the gold, 
And all the base unfold 
That ruled mankind's degenerate heart, 
And was of the old Life a part. 



232 



THE NEW CITY. 



The sacred Vow they always kept 

Firm and inviolate ! 
In golden precepts never slept; 

Immutable as Fate ! 
Should man on woman's features look 
As on the fair page of a book — 
God's book wherein all good is writ — 

That man was held, by law, unfit 
To live, and died the awful Death — 

Gave for the crime his blighting breath ! 
"Death to the Judas !" was the cry ; 
Death to the Traitor would defy 
Our Laws, to bring again 
The selfish brand of Cain 
To foreheads spotless fair, 
And plunge our hearts in care 
From which we have escaped, 
And all the bitter pain 
Of Vice's godless reign 
That noisome woes hath shaped 
To drag existence down 
Where Hell's foul shadows frown 
Upon unhallowed hosts ! 
Where ever gliding Ghosts 



THE NEW CITY. 

Of grim Disease flit by, 

And Pain obscures the sky 
Wherein shines Hope, from mortal eyes ! 
Despoil not thou our Paradise 

By means unholy ! 

Here, meek and lowly, 
We live the Law for us appointed, 
Our lives by Purity anointed. 
Death to the Judas would betray us ! 
Death to the heart of him would slay us ! 

The Law — the Vow 

Protect us now ! 
The New Millennium is ours! 
The World is garlanded with flowers — 
A garden fresh from God's own hand, 
And as He at creation planned ! 
This was the cry rose on the breeze, 
Wafting, like murmuring of seas, 
Sweet music on the listening ear — 
A pean from that Land so dear ! 
Then in the sunset's purple glow 
That lighted up the walls of snow 
Of that strange city, like a dove 
The benediction of God's love 



233 



234 THE NEW CITY - 

Descended from His Home above ! 
And Peace was in the air around 

And in the realms below, 
I heard no note of Discord sound, 

Nor cry of human woe ! 
Then tenderly the stars outshone — 
The jewels of God's Heavenly throne — 
"Peace! Love!" they seemed to sweetly sing, 
Softly as touch of Angel's wing ! 
"These cities yet shall stand, 
The pride of every land." 



OSCEOLA. 



235 



OSCEOLA. 

X-TERE, beside the deep blue sea, 

I muse of days no more to be — 
Of Life and all its tangled skein, 
Its mingled joy and bitter pain. 
The white sails dot the pearl-tipped waves 
That sob and moan as o'er the graves 
Of sailors in eternal sleep 
Down in the caves of ocean deep ! 
So moans my heart beside the sea 
For one brave heart who once to me 
Seemed god-like in his majesty! 
Whose image now before me comes, 
Aye, god-like still! 

I hear the drums 
Of yonder surf beat on the shore. 
Again I'm with the hearts of yore! 
My father was a trader brave 
And led me hither as a boy, 
Bv dark ravine and rocky cave 



236 OSCEOLA. 

And swamp ; and here it was my joy 

To gaze on Osceola's face 

With every line of manhood's grace 

Written thereon, as on a page ! 

Oh, bravery was the heritage 

Of this great Chief, e'en then my friend, 

And true and loyal to the end ! 

He drew me to him as a star 

Draws mortal gaze to heaven afar. 

My young soul in its ardor grew 

To love his band ; their ways I knew. 

Here were the swarthy negroes bold, 

Never to be in slavery sold, 

As was their doom in days of old, 

Ere they became brave refugees ; 

Only to him they bent their knees — 

Their Chief! 

Here were the red men true, 
Stolid and brave to dare and do; 
These were the mighty ones I knew 
In those young days of long ago, 
And their foe was my deadly foe ! 
For Osceola drew free breath, 



OSCEOLA. 

And slavery was living Death ! 

My heart, my sympathy I gave 

Unto the mighty Chief so brave. 

His eagle eyes oft looked in mine ; 

Stalwart was he as forest pine ; 

He led us thro' the dense morass, 

'Mid tangled woods and waving grass, 

By tropic trees whose hair was laced 

And garlanded, the foe we chased, 

Relentlessly as blood hounds track 

Their quarry, and ne'er turned we back ! 

Beneath the swaying palms we rode 

Whose leaves like daggers hung; 

And under fruit of gold we strode. 

While battle songs were sung. 

Birds of blue and green and red 

Hovered o'er each feathered head 

For the fierce war-path bonnetted 

'Mid sylvan haunts where fruit was pressed, 

Like children to the mother-breast ; 

Where the deer, startled from his rest. 

Sped like an arrow from the bow, 

And the bear wandered to and fro, 

At blush of dawn our steps would go ; 



237 



238 OSCEOLA. 

Living the life that Freedom knows — 
Its energy — its grand repose! 
Our weapons were the arrows keen 
The bow, the knife, the tomahawk; 
Not for wild creatures of the scene 
That thro' the everglades would stalk; 
'These were for Tyrants only made — " 
These weapons borne thro' everglade 
And gorgeous vines, upon our trail: 
So said our Chief. As summer gale, 
His words were soft. His heart was kind 
As maiden's in its peace enshrined ! 
As gentle as the bronze-eyed fawn 
That crops the herbage of the dawn ! 

We halted by the streams 
That sang, as if in dreams; 
Where fair magnolias grew 
And winds their fragrance blew. 
The campfire's smoke upcurled, 
Like sails that were unfurled. 

Then would the great chief walk apart, 
And muse beside the babbling stream, 



OSCEOLA. 

Or gaze upon the far-off stars 
That trembled in the majesty 
Of God ! 

'Twas there I sought him once. 
And there he told me of his wrongs. 
His beauteous bride had in her veins 
The blood that doomed her for a slave! 
How she was taken, to be sold 
As beast of burden, in those days! 
How he had pled for her release, 
And how the scoff and bitter jibe 
Of pale faces had wrung his heart 
To deadly vengeance. "I fight them not," 
He said, "because the face is white; 
It is because the heart is black! 
With treachery deep-dyed their soul ! 
I war for Freedom of all men ! 
So shall I till Life's sun departs." 

Again at 'dawn the trail we took, 
By moss-hung trees, and winding brook; 
Green, tangled depths, where wild birds piped 
And nimble squirrels, brownly striped, 



239 



240 



OSCEOLA. 



Like bolts of lightning, flashed in air. 
And hid in trees all sunlit fair. 

Then rang the war whoop piercing wild ; 
The rifle cracked ; and knives out-flashed ; 
Blood reddened every inch of sod ; 
Dripped at our belts the pale face scalps ! 
The wild flight to our swamps, at dusk. 
And we secure from hand of foe ! 
The battle raged, day after day. 
Then came a lull. 

Where we were hid 
Gay butterflies, with wavering wings, 
Poised on the air, like flying flowers ; 
The mocking bird its song outpoured 
In thankfulness to bounteous God ! 
But rest was brief; the stern command 
Of Osceola rang once more, 
And on the war-path sped his band 
To victory. 

So fell my lot, 
One day, to linger in the camp, 
Bade by my Chief to watch and guard. 



OSCEOLA. 241 

Idly I lay 'neath tropic skies. 

Once, bathed in sunset's radiant gold, 

Before me stood an Indian girl, 

Dark-eyes, and lovely as a queen ! 

My heart was hers, e'en while I gazed! 

The daughter of a Chief was she — 

A mighty Chief — with heart of stone! 

x\nd he would have his daughter wed 

A slave-trader, with many wives — 

Fair sample of the hideous trade ! 

A harem had he 'mid these wilds 

Of dusky hued, and black and white ! 

We wandered on thro' blossoming trees, 

Where humming bees and warbling birds 

Made musical the canopies 

Of leaves above? where glinted thro' 

The deep blue of the skies of Heaven, 

And spoke we then of Love ! 

True love, 
That fills the heart with sweetest bliss ! 
The hope, the joy of all desire, 
A balm, and a consuming flame ! 
We drifted in our bark canoe 



242 



OSCEOLA. 



'Neath drooping palms, where lilies bloomed. 

Not whiter, fairer, than her soul ! 

Thro' fragrant breath of orange groves 

We glided; saw the stars arise 

And set; and sang she there for me 

A song, like cooing of the dove 

Unto its mate : no song more sweet 

Was ever heard in Paradise ! 

Alas ! but happiness is brief, 

And Love — a flower that fades at eve ! 

What strange canoes swung into sight? 
What rifles gleamed in hands of might? 
Bound were we there, and led away 
Unto a city old and gray ! 
They placed me in a noisome cell 
Wherein no gleam of daylight fell — 
Rock-hewn, in Spanish days of old. 
Chilly, and hung with slimy mould. 
I moaned, I cried in my despair, 
Like pinioned leopard in its lair ! 
I cursed my lot, with bitter tears — 
The echo was but savage jeers! 
A keeper came, thrust thro' a door 



OSCEOLA. 243 

Bread, water ; then locked, as before 

That egress — all was dark once more! 

One night as I bemoaned my Fate, 

Left hopeless, dying, desolate, 

I heard the jailer's jingling keys; 

A trembling smote my hands, my knees ; 

But 'twas the thrill of wild delight ! 

In buckskin garbed, dawned on my sight 

My loved one! 

In each other's arms, 
What cared we then for all the harms 
That vengeance sought on us to wreak? 
''What do you here, my darling — speak?" 
I whispered, "I have come to save 
My true love from his living grave!'' 
She answered, "Doomed to torture dire — 
The horrid rack, the deadly fire — 
This was your portion ! 

I am here 
Oh, my beloved, do not fear ! 
x\nd I remain to take your place ! 
Nay, look not so, with ashen face ! 
Horses are near: go, dearest, go!" 



244 



OSCEOLA. 



She said, with cheeks of love aglow. 

"What does this mean?" my heart outspoke; 

But swifter than the lightning's stroke 

Fell on my ears her words of dread : 

"It means, you rescued from the dead 

A soul that sinned forevermore. 

And from perdition did restore 

A lone, despairing, worthless one 

Shunned by all good beneath the sun ! 

No purity was in my heart 

Till love of yours came to impart 

Its healing balm ; as lilies are, 

In whiteness, you have made my soul 

So it may seek its envied goal — 

The happy hunting grounds ; for when 

Your lips touched mine, ah, then, ah, then, 

Love made of me — the vulture foul — 

In search of prey, a dove ! 

Friends prowl 
To seek your death ! 

Go ! Leave me ! Go !" 
"Then let us both escape," I said, 
She shook her head, and answered, "No !" 



OSCEOLA. 

Recoiling from my arms in dread. 

"I am not fit to share your love, 

Tho' dear it is as Heaven above ! 

To-day I was to have been wed," 

And in her shame she bowed her head. 

'The hardened sinner here would rest ; 

I die for you — it is the best ! 

That Fate alone for me is blest ! 

I hear their footsteps! Go, love, fly!" 

"And leave you here alone? Not I !" 

I spoke, and caught her to my heart, 

"No! you and I shall never part!" 

She drew a dagger from her girth, 

I dashed it swiftly to the earth ! 

The door flew open ; swift as light 

A steed I mounted, in my flight, 

And lifted her unto my side, 

As o'er the trail, quick, bound on bound, 

We sped ! 

Click ! came the fateful sound 
Of rifle ! 



245 



246 OSCEOLA. 

With its deadly aim : 
A spurt of blood from her breast came, 
And silent in my arms she lay ! 

* * * 

On, on, with the speed of a cyclone, my bay 
Dashed into the open, away and away ! 
With one arm I held my dear burden, so pale, 
But words that I spoke there could nothing avail. 

By river and ford, 

By hill and ravine ; 

Past forests so broad 

Of dew-spangled green ; 

'Neath tall, bearded trees 

Moss-tangled, we flew ; 

With Death on the breeze — 

Yet no rein I drew ! 

Crack ! Crack ! rifles blazed, 

Swift bullets sang 'round ; 

Still forward I gazed 

Nor heeded their sound. 

I called her dear name! 

I pleaded that she 

Would speak ! Pressed her cheek, 

Ah ! how cold 'twas to me ! 



OSCEOLA. 247 

My wild, panting steed 
Paused no whit in his flight ; 
But each word he would heed. 
Was there rescue in sight ? 
Thro' the river we splashed, 
Up the steep bank we dashed; 
And at the dying of the day 
As rescue, safety, far away, 
Was almost in my startled grasp ! 
I felt her hand's convulsive clasp, 
Then all was still! 

I knew no more, 
Until a grave face bending o'er 
My form, recalled me back to light 
And Life! 

And he who met my sight 
Was Osceola, Chief and friend! 
And so my story has its end. 

$ :■< ■%. 

We made her grave beneath the pines, 
Where evermore the lily twines 
In loving friendship with the rose, 
And swift winds sigh at day's repose. 



248 OSCEOLA. 

I pressed her lips ere in that tomb 
I left her in her beauty's bloom ! 
And ever after, in sweet dreams, 
I've heard her voice — so near it seems ! 
Her light canoe glides swiftly by 
At twilight, 'neath that tropic sky, 
And on the air her song is heard 
Mingled with night-songs of the bird. 
Years afterwards I sought the spot 
Where she was laid, but found it not ; 
But the light leaves that warm wind stir 
Seemed ever whispering of her ! 
I felt her breath upon my cheek, 
Her eyes beamed on me, softly meek ! 
Away ! it was the dream of yore 
Those Seminole days live no more, 
And all their joys and griefs are o'er ! 

But Osceola, what of him ? 
The well-fought battle sounds grew dim. 
They led the Chief in chains away — 
His spirit broken — from the fray ; 
That spirit proud had never bent 
Before ! 



OSCEOLA. 

What nobler monument 
Should be than his whose stolen lands 
Divided were by white man's hands? 
Whose kin were severed from his heart, 
Whose wife was sold at Slavery's mart? 
Conquered in the unequal fight 
Where bullets dared the arrow's flight, 
He looms, heroic and sublime, 
A noble warrior thro' all time ! 
O, glorious Nation that with might 
Hath trodden down the Indian's Right ! 
Hath sown your vices in his path ! 
Will there not come a day of wrath 
W^hen all shall surely righted be ! 
Take heed lest this dark day you see, 
When the red man, in God's own time, 
Shall rise in judgment of your crime ! 



249 



250 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 
(Arizona.) 
11J IGH o'er the desert's leagues of bleaching sand 

That seem to quiver in the blinding glare, 
No blade of living green on either hand, 
With only desolation in the air, 
And silence, breathing Death and grim Despair, 
With helpless horror brooding everywhere 
The spirit of the scene — a grizzly stands 
Upon a peak whose eminence commands 
The utmost limit of these lonely lands. 
Above him rise still grander heights of snow, 
Up, up, until they lose themselves in clouds ; 
While gorge and ravine yawning far below, 
Whose awful deeps the darkest shadow shrouds, 
Unlighted by the sunset's dying glow, 
A sense of fearful majesty bestow. 
Rich purple, fit for panoply of kings, 
The setting orb inimitably flings 
O'er purest white of snows for ages laid 
Far, far above the towering pine-tree glade, 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 251 

And mingled hues of pearl and amethyst 
Blend o'er the scene in gold and purple mist! 
As if the hand of God, at shut of day, 
Were softly laid upon His glorious work, 
That it might hide from awe-pierced eyes away 
Yon desert where dark, fell Destruction lay ! 
The arrows of the sunset, tipped with fire, 
Glanced over gorge and over rocky spire, 
For like some vast Cathedral's massive height 
The grand Sierras loom upon the sight 
This sunset hour ! and thro' their cloven aisles, 
Lo! 'tis Almighty God who sweetly smiles! 
The wind's soft sigh is like the prelude fair 
Of some vast organ calling man to prayer ! 
And deeper, deeper flash the radiant dyes 
Of those translucent, iridescent skies 
Till Heaven seems opened to the raptured gaze 
And human hearts pause in devout amaze ! 
The spirit of the scene stood silent there, 
Distinctly limned against this scene so fair, 
Huge, fierce, as if to supreme anger wrought 
At what the years in onward course had brought. 
He seemed to mark the desert's deadly waste; 
The mountains wild in adamant encased ; 



252 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 

The snowy peaks ! the weird abyss beneath ; 

The river, like a sword without a sheath, 

Glancing afar ; the pine trees darkly green — 

All these he marked — the spirit of the scene — 

Then to my heart, in accents eloquent, 

A message from that dizzy height was sent, 

And with the glory of the scene was blent 

In never fading, and resistless power, 

From him — the Prophet of the sunset hour ! 

From him whose feet had trodden year by year 

Yon valleys low, and yon aerial sphere 

Whose only limit is the keen-eyed stars 

Which sentinel the realm that Heaven bars 

From mortal ken ! And thus the message sped : 

"These paths by man untrodden, wild and lone, 

The lapse of Ages, since earth's dawn, have known ! 

Yon silvery river murmuring to the sea 

Will ripple on till Time no more shall be ; 

These caverns held in hollow of God's hand 

Will rear their heads precipitately grand 

And frown o'er yonder parching desert sand ; 

While storms of Winter turbulent and free 

Will wolf-like howl in fierce and angry might, 

Resounding still from awful height to height, 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 253 

'Mid blinding whirls of sleet and feathery snow, 

When icy winds tumultuously blow ! 

And man will pass away, aye, race by race, 

No more on earth to have a biding place, 

His bones will whiten yonder gleaming sands, 

And all the labor of his busy hands 

Will prove of no avail, howe'er he toil, 

And garner, in his greed, the golden spoil 

Of these wild lands ! Yet these forever last — 

These battlements and towers grandly vast, 

Forever soaring to the skies afar, 

Above the world's incessant hum and jar, 

A living monument of Deity supreme 

To mock man's power, and scorn his wildest dream 

Of grand achievement ! Yea, these pass not by 

Till like a scroll shall rolled up be the sky 

In flame and earthquake shock and gloom 

W^ild portents of the judgment day of Doom! 

Time was, when o'er yon desert's mighty space, 

The buffalo would darken Nature's face 

In numbers countless as the ocean's waves 

Or, as on earth, are mankind's mouldering graves ! 

As if the clouds that brought the hurricane 

Had swept their vampire-wings across the plain 



254 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 



And hovered there ! Where are those legions now 

That thundered past the vales and hills, as prow 

Of vessel plunges in the ocean's brine, 

Or cleft- rock flies adown the steep decline? 

Gone ! Not one vestige of their bones remains 

To speak their prowess on yon sterile plains ! 

Oft have I seen the canvas wagons thread 

The path upon the dried-up river's bed — 

Like tiny sails of white they sped along 

And faintly on the breeze I heard the song 

Of many a brave and stalwart settler-throng 

Upon its way towards the boundless West, 

While here I've listened on this lofty crest ! 

How oft I've watched the twinkling campfire's gleam. 

Like fireflies, by the starry-lighted stream, 

While o'er the tent the midnight hush descended 

And all the toils of day in dreams were ended ! 

Where are those brave and sun-bronzed hearts of 

yore ? 
Go search the sands, you ne'er will find them more! 
Lost, swallowed up by Time's devouring might — 
Gone like the lightning's flash in depths of night 
Unmarked, unnoticed in oblivion's flight! 
Yet still the canyon's deeps in shadows lie, 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 255 

Yet still these rocks immeasurably high 
Heed not the years in their incessant flow ; 
Massive they stand as in ages long ago! 
The golden arrows of the lightning strike ; 
But bolt or sunbeam is to them alike ; 
The rains and snows beat on them year by year, 
But all unscathed their ancient forms appear, 
As when they first in elemental strife 
Sprang, at God's bidding, to insensate life ! 
Born of the earthquake's globe uprending shock, 
Heaving stupendous rock high up on rock ; 
Measureless chasm and abyss tremendous, 
Down, sheer down, where cataracts leapt by ; 
Gorge, gulch, declivity and walls stupendous, 
Where never gleams the light of yonder sky ! 
Home of the eagle, and the vulture's haunt. 
Where silently they poise on moveless wings ! 
Ah ! vain is man and every idle vaunt 
Of prowess that in vanity he sings 
When measured with this handiwork of God — 
Towers of the world, by human feet untrod ! 
Creation's dawn first saw this majesty 
Of mountains sentinelling yonder vales — 
First heard the grand and fearful symphony 



256 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 



Awaken in the fury of its gales, 

And thunder down these vast cathedral aisles 

Where never blossom in the sunlight smiles ! 

So far away that scarcely eye could scan — 

Like specks appeared the savage caravan, 

Trailing the tepees o'er the arid waste, 

Or spurring on in wild ferocious haste 

To where the pioneers their tents had placed, 

In fancied safety, for a night of rest 

And peaceful dreams, where never ills molest. 

Then on the dreamers beamed the home-light sweet 

Whose cheerful rays their eyes no more would greet! 

The home beside the river's flowery side 

Before their vision stood in humble pride ; 

The well-sweep and the barn were theirs once more, 

And living faces and delights of yore. 

As if the fiends of Hell had all arisen — ■ 

Had rushed headlong from out their lurid prison, 

The painted foe upon the quarry swept, 

And Death their portion was while calmly slept 

Mother and babe, and maidens in their glow, 

And manhood, and old age with locks of snow ! 

Sphinx-like this mountain's face down-gazed 

Impassive, stern, nor more amazed 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 

Than if the sound of Angels' hovering wings 

Had fallen there in grateful murmurings ! 

Or if the grand celestial choir had sung 

In rapturous measure, past all mortal tongue 

Or mind of human to conceive ; so gazed 

This mountain, pitiless and unamazed ! 

Noon on the desert's white and gleaming waste, 

A copper sky whereon no cloud is traced ; 

No glance of water glimmers to the sight, 

No sound of bird or beast, from left to right, 

Or anywhere, nothing save quivering blight! 

The cactus rears its tiny spears; no shade 

For endless leagues along the trackless path 

No longer swept by cyclone in its wrath, 

That hurled the sleet-like sand in whirls of fire 

Stinging the hapless traveler, like fire ! 

No breath of air to fan the swollen veins 

That choked with blood stand out upon the skin 

Of laboring broncho, on whose neck the reins 

Hang loosely o'er his mane. Dejected, thin, 

Devoured by thirst, his rider's anxious gaze 

Scans, hand o'er eyes, the soul-tormenting blaze, 

His black lips cracked, and red with spirted blood ; 

While in his feverish fancy pours a flood, 



257 



258 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 

In tantalizing gushes, just afar 

Where yonder mirage tells where green hills are! 

The trail is lost ! He staggers aimlessly, 

For yonder oasis holds life and rest ! 

A few more steps and safety he can see, 

And sweet repose upon fair Nature's breast! 

He shouts as shouts the maniac in glee! 

Another step, 'tis all to reach yon tree 

That waves its branches in the cooling air ! 

Still on and on his blundering footsteps fare. 

For fast recedes that vision from his eyes 

Beneath the fire that falleth from the skies 

To wither 'neath its touch both men and beast, 

And fit them for the vulture's watched-for feast ! 

Oh, God of Heaven, 'tis pitiful to lie 

Out on the desert lone, and slowly die ; 

To seem to hear the babbling, silver brooks 

Singing their way along in mossy nooks ! 

To know that help is gone forevermore, 

And all Life's purposes and plans are o'er ! 

Was this the end to be of search for gold? 

These wanderings and horrors manifold? 

Ah, glazed eyes fixed upon the dome above, 

Who now will close those lids with hands of love ? 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 259 

Who softly still those writhing limbs of thine? 

Whose loving* arms thy wasted form entwine? 

E'en now, afar, mayhap some loved one waits 

To welcome thee, the while she contemplates 

Thy safe return to Home and all that's dear, 

Within her heart no haunting thought of fear ! 

And, hopeless, watching, as year follows year, 

Will say: "He has forgotten those he knew 

In the old days, before he proved untrue !" 

Meanwhile he lies upon the barren sands, 

Stretched white upon his breast those bony hands ! 

His sepulchre the dim, lone desert's reach, 

His requiem the eagle's rancous screech ! 

And yet God knows, and understands ! 

Back in the flight of Time, yea, eons back, 

My spirit flies, and sees no vapid track; 

But hordes that dwelt upon this flowerless land — 

The men of old of stalwart limb 

Whose eyes the sun-blaze could not dim. 

What city of that long forgotten Past 

Here built its homes, and braved the furnace-blast? 

What loves, what hopes, here had their glorious birth, 

And lived their hours upon this spot of earth ? 

The songs of childhood, and the laugh of youth, 



26o THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 

The words of wisdom and the voice of truth, 

Here oft were heard beneath the swaying palm, 

And golden hours were passed in joy and calm, 

Where roses gave the fragrance of their balm 

To winds that played 'mid tresses dark or fair ; 

And mirth was ringing on the wandering air ! 

Now every breath is laden with Despair ! 

No purposes that live in human heart 

But in long ages back have played their part 

Beneath this sky ! Perchance here flowed the sea 

In all its wild and peerless majesty! 

And sails were wafted from their havens here 

While songs of sailors rang with merry cheer 

Long after cities had lain buried here ! 

What centuries of human woe and weal 

Could not these mute and Time-swept sands reveal? 

Peaks of the ancient world, we ask in vain ! 

Ye answer not unto our plea ! Again 

I turn me to the sphinx-like mountain's brow, 

And in my helplessness I humbly bow ! 

Ye answer not, who all could now unfold, 

Clad in soft raiment of the sunset's gold, 

Crowned with the glory that surpasses kings 

Beauty of star and moon, and all that brings 



THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 261 

Loveliness to earth kneels at thy feet, 

And offers thee the homage of the morn ; 

The grandeur of the tempest wreathes thee 'round, 

The lightning's gold is that with which thou'rt 

crowned, 
Thy jewels are the dew drops newly born ! 
Lo ! still yon beast looks o'er the desert scene 
Bathed in the sunset's beatific sheen — 
Deep-woven dyes resplendently serene ! 
Dark painted there against yon background gray. 
Illumined by each evanescent ray, 
The Prophet of this lone aerial height, 
Moveless it stands amid the splendor bright. 
Now fades the purple from the dimming West, 
The gold the crimson wreathing peak and crest. 
The changing hues upon the snowy breast 
Of these Sierras. Soundless grows the air, 
Like barques, with sails of pearl, the clouds 
Float on their seas inimitably fair, 
To harbors that the coming Night enshrouds. 
God's flowers — the stars — now one by one appear, 
As twilight in deep beauty hovers near, 
Like some sweet Angel hushing all to rest 
As dies the last faint glimmer in the West ! 



262 THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL. 

Then from the brilliant orbs there seems to fall 
A hush as if to prayer they summoned all 
Of earth ! An e'en these peaks seem bowed in prayer, 
While moonlight bends in benediction there ! 
So thro' the night these awful caverns loom 
Steeped in their vast impenetrable gloom ! 
Still, echoless, no sound of whirring wing, 
Till Morn shall come, in grandeur of a king, 
And plant upon these walls his standard bright 
While fly the scattered legions of the Night ! 
Arizona, 1904. 



RAMON A. 263 



RAMONA. 



T5ESIDE the tepee's door she sat; 
The murmur of the cataract 
That leapt from rocky cleft to cleft 
Was all the sound she heard. Bereft 
Of all that life and love held dear, 
A moment then she paused to hear 
The accents of her little boy, 
Playing beside her in his joy. 
A bow and arrow held he there, 
And little knew her heart's despair ! 
Her open arms she held to him 
While tears her darksome eyes made dim, 
And these words told her woe and care: 
"Come close to me, my poor, lone boy, 
My anguish, and my soul's dear joy ! 
Nay, look not in mine eyes with fear, 
For the last time I clasp thee here ! 
I go where love knows not deceit, 
Where only love is ever sweet — 
The Father's! In that happy land 



264 RAMONA. 

Beyond the stars ! Oh, proud and grand 
Thy father once held me to his breast, 
And first these raven locks caressed, 
It seems not many moons ago 
The blissful mem'ry haunts me so ! 
My life is fading, as the day 
That sinks in yonder clouds away ; 
Soon comes the night ; alas, for me ! 
Another day I shall not see ! 
So let me quickly tell to you 
My story, as yon heavens true. 
Afar from here, 'neath torrid skies, 
And peaks that to the stars arise ; 
Where torrents like a whirlwind dash, 
And sounds the thunder's awful crash ; 
Where step of white man rarely trod, 
The red man dwelt. He was my God — 
That stranger who one day I found 
Within the tepee, strongly bound, 
Reserved for torture when the sun 
That day its lurid course had run! 
I had a heart that could endure 
All pangs, and keep its purpose sure; 
An Indian maiden does not fear ! 



RAMONA. 265 



But there was something in those eyes 
That gazed upon me, deep and clear — 
Something my heart could not despise ! 
They seemed to say, "Oh, save me, girl ! 
And I will give my heart's dear pearl — 
Its tender love alone to thee !" 
My soul went out in sympathy. 
Oh, God ! that this the end must be ! 
I gave him one assuring glance, 
And left the rest to time and chance ; 
For I could not the stranger leave 
In misery to moan and grieve 
Knowing that Death his fate would be 
Ere midnight fell o'er rock and tree ! 
I watched, and to the tepee crept, 
While all the tribe in silence slept! 
No sound except the night wind's moan, 
I stood before him there alone ! 
Unbound the thongs, and set him free ! 
Led him to where he safe would be 
Oh, God ! for white man's treachery ! 
A pale face with a heart as black 
As midnight! Boy, the time I lack 
To tell thee how my heart was won. 



266 RAMON A. 

And how I loved thy parent, son ! 
My father was a chief, and stern, 
And when he came the truth to learn 
He died in grief — I left his side: 
The Indian maiden was the bride 
Of one to whom she gave her life — 
Her life of Love, thro' ev'ry strife ! 
Days passed away ; we happy were 
Within the City's whirl and stir; 
I lived but for his love alone, 
He was the Sun that o'er me shone! 
His was the smile that was a star 
To guide me on to joy afar! 
I never dreamed that untruth lay 
Within his vile soul day by day ! 
I never thought he could forget 
The life I saved him ! With regret 
I saw his love fade as the star 
That ushers in the dawn afar! 
But thou hadst come to be my joy, 
My ruddy, little joy-faced boy! 
For thee I lived, his taunts I bore, 
But from this heart his love I tore, 
When for another he forsook 



RAMONA. 267 



His wife ; and boy, his life I took ! 
I tracked him with the steps of Fate — 
Even an Indian squaw can hate ! 
* * $ 

I was an outcast, shunned by all ! 
By night I heard the wolf-pack call ; 
But it was sweeter to my ear 
Than heartless laughter, jibe and jeer 
Heaped on a poor forsaken wife — 
No home, no friend, no rest in life! 
Oft I have paused upon the side 
Of yonder canyons yawning wide 
And watched the thread of silver flow 
Thousands of feet away below, 
And thought to plunge within its breast 
To find an end in dreamless rest ! 
But thou wert near ; how could I leave 
My boy, my pride, alone to grieve ? 
Tis better as it is: I go 
Beyond these peaks of living snow- 
Where the Great Spirit cares for all 
However mean, however small ! 
For heeds He not a sparrow's fall? 



268 RAMON A. 

Just now I placed within thy hand 
The poisoned arrow of our band 
And bade thee aim with childish glee 
The bow-string held upon thy knee ! 
Kiss me ! One clasp ! to rest I go ! 
Weep not my boy, thou couldst not know 
That death lurked in the poisoned dart — 
Thank God the arrow reached my heart ! 

The night fell o'er her like a pall 
While pitying stars looked on her there ! 
Once happy, young, unknown to care 
But now bereaved of Life and all ! 
So passed she from the earth away. 
Biding in peace God's judgment day! 



DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 2 6g 



DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 

4 4^V7'OU sort of admire that small mustang's pints? 
Why, stranger, there's lightnin' in all them 
rough jints! 
That's why his name's Thunder. I gave it to him. 
Tho' when I first owned him his name was plain 

Jim. 
Set by for a minute ; that's Rosebud, my wife — 
Thar' ain't any finer gal around, on your life 
Thar' ain't any sweeter in all the wide West, 
I pan out on her, let who will have the rest ! 
You think she's a woman ; I say she's a Saint, — 
An Angel of goodness, I'm blessed ef she ain't! 
But speakin' of horses. Whoa ! easy now, Thunder. 
Look out! he might nip ye, and I shouldn't wonder! 
Ye see, he knows me, but to strangers he's shy. 
Just look at that devil's light in his off eye! 
'Twas this a way : one day at sun up we sped 
Far out on the prairie, red hot over head ; 
There wasn't a cloud in the bright copper sky, 
And water — there wasn't a drop of it nigh, 



270 DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 

Not even a sign of it, look where you might, 

And nothin' but parched, withered sage brush in sight. 

Why even the tongues of the coyotes hung out 

A half a yard long as they skulked 'round about. 

I own I was puzzled to know whar to go — 

To know what to do — tho' I'm not always so. 

'Well, Thunder,' sez I, 'it's a clear case of skunk.' 

He snorted, as much as to say — 'We'll git hunk !' 

Then just over thar rose a small cloud of dust, 

I couldn't make out what it meant, at the fust, 

But Thunder there picked up his ears, shook his head, 

And Tnjins! run fur it!' that's just what he said. 

Right off to our left was a small clump of trees, 

We started fur that ; it was go as you please ; 

But I knew we could hide, if we got there in time, 

And the way Thunder galloped — well, it was sublime ! 

I just let him have that bit all to the good, 

And yelled 'Go it Thunder!' and he understood! 

The red devils swept down, with one mighty yell, 

I fired at the foremost, his horse reared, he fell ! 

A shower of bullets clipped brush all around, 

But on galloped Thunder — kept time to the sound ! 

Still nearer and nearer, to head us they tried, 

Old Thunder kept going, and never once shied 



DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 271 

Until we were safe behind that clump of trees, 
And Thunder — why, that for him wasn't a breeze ! 
But this wasn't all, for I caught just a gleam, 
Although miles away, I knew 'twas a stream, 
And that was the brightest of visions to me, 
A sight much more precious than any could be ! 
Say, Stranger, do you know the awful sensation 
Of thirst, hev ye given it consideration? 
The sky like an oven, the sand 'neath yer feet, 
And even the rattle snakes frizzling with heat; 
Yer tongue lolling out, and yer lips baked and hard, 
Well, say, if yer haven't, yer lucky, old pard. 
As I was just savin', he saved me, old Thunder, 
So look at him, tell me now, ain't he a wonder? 
But that wasn't all, fer we've had other chases 
Which showed Thunder's mettle and elegant paces. 
Just pass the old bottle, it makes me feel dry 
To think of the times we've had, Thunder and I. 
One night when the stars were all twinkling aloft, • 
And breezes were hummin' not any too soft, 
We two had been prospectin' nigh the foot hills, 
And hungry enough, well, to give one the chills. 
When all of a sudden the heavens grew clouded 
A snow-storm was risin', the prospect was shrouded 



272 



DAVY CROCKETS RIDE. 



With big flakes of snow till our sight it was blinded, 
We'd soon lost the trail ; but old Thunder ne'er minded. 
He stood still awhile as if thinking about it, 
Then made up his mind that he could do without it 
And find out a path for himself. 

Now 'twas midnight 
The snow kept on falling, and totally hid night; 
But Thunder, fleet footed, just kept up his stride 
And I was so frozen, I scarcely could ride. 
An hour went by, and we no nigher home, 
The desert was white, like an ocean of foam ; 
I heard a low sound, and the old horse looked back 
To see what it was that had followed his track ; 
I knew it was wolves, and, my God, what a pack ! 
On, faster and faster, they came with a rush ! 
It made my blood curdle to hear in that hush 
Of snow-blinding midnight the horrible howl 
Of hundreds of wolves with their fierce hungry growl ! 
Old Thunder he knew how to spoil their nice game, 
He'd been thar' before, and their mettle could tame ; 
I stood in my stirrups, and held tight my breath, 
(To be eaten alive ain't a nice kind of death !) 



DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 273 

As the foremost black speck shown out clear on the 

white 
Of the snow, I let loose, and one stopped in his flight ! 
Bang! Bang! you'd have thought that all hell was 

to pay, 
And so for a minute I held them at bay. 
To see them black devils, when they'd scented blood, 
Tear, scramble and scratch would hev' done yer heart 

good. 
Old Thunder swept on, didn't lose nary inch — 
A friend is yer friend when it comes to a pinch ! 
And he was my friend on that terrible night. 
I'll never forget it — not by a dern sight! 
Them wolves put together, stopped havin' their fight, 
We hurried along, and they fast strugglin' after, 
And all the while makin' their horrible laughter, 
Which seemed to say, 'now we'll soon hev' ye dead 

beat, 
And dollars to doughnuts ye both are our meat! 5 
But look ! at the foot-hills a half mile away 
There twinkles a light ! 'tis as welcome as day 
To one who despairs thro' a night of disaster ! 
I'm blessed if old Thunder then didn't run faster, 
And up to the door of my cabin he stopped, 



274 DAVY CROCKET'S RIDE. 



While out of the saddle I instantly dropped 

And led him straight in, when I barred quick the door, 

Those daring black devils we'd foiled just once more! 

Say, Stranger, now ain't it a while between drinks? 

Ye see, 'bout old Thunder I've so many kinks 

I'd set here forever ter tell what he's done; 

There ain't any equal ter him, not a one! 

Well, there was a gal, just a rose-bud of June, 

She set my heart singin' to Love's sweetest tune, 

Yer never might think it; but 'twas years ago, 

And somehow time changes a feller, ye know, 

But never the heart — she's my love to this hour, 

And blooms still for me, my dear rose-bud, my flow'r ! 

Another chap liked her, she didn't let on 

Which lover her mind had yet settled upon. 

So somehow that chap said we'd race for her hand, 

Whoever should win she would choose — understand? 

Well, he was a tenderfoot, always would brag 

About his fine Morgan-sired thoroughbred nag. 

And I had old Thunder, or rather plain Jim — 

For that was the name was first given to him. 

The race-day came of! : there was lots of a crowd, 

The talk and the bettin' was both rather loud. 

A hundred to one was the odds on my nag, 



DAVY CROCKETS RIDE. 275 

But that didn't matter, and I didn't care, 

For I saw a face that looked heavenly fair, 

Her eyes seemed to say, "I am yours, and you'll win !" 

Although to the rest my chance looked rather thin. 

Four miles straight away and return, was the game, 

His horse looked the winner, mine humble and tame. 

We started, the crowd roared, he'll beat him to death, 

But me and old Thunder there just held our breath. 

In racin', ye know, it's a good thing ter wait 

And shout when yer win, this you'll learn soon or late ! 

The First mile he went away far in the lead, 

But 1 didn't mind that, I knew Thunder's speed, 

Just hung on until we had come to the Two 

And then just a leetle up nearer I drew. 

The Third, 'bout the same, and I saw Thunder wink 

As much as to say, 'We hev' got him, I think !' 

The Fourth, goin' easy, as usual quite, 

And then came the run home — well that was a sight ! 

The Fifth, we had crept up still nearer, could see 

That Morgan-sired thoroughbred didn't agree 

With the lashing his rider applied to his flank. 

I knew in a twinkling his courage then sank, 

And old Thunder's hoof-beats — they flew like a dart — 

Kept always repeating, 'Oh, we'll break his heart!' 



276 DAVY CROCKETS RIDE. 

'Oh, we'll break his heart!' then the Sixth mile we 

passed, 
And up to his saddle swept Thunder, at last! 
He hung there as never a nag hung before! 
Then up to the skies went a yell and a roar, 
As the Seventh we passed, half an inch to the fore! 
The thoroughbred rallied, came at us again, 
His rider plied spur, till he bled from each vein, 
But it was nary use, and the string was in sight, 
And Thunder, swept on, in his masterly might, 
Won the race in a canter, and just by pure grit, 
And Stranger, well, that is about all of it ! 
Except that I won the gal settin' up there 
And smilin', a pretty rose-bud in her hair, 
Which she took and pinned on my coat right away, 
And she's been my Rose-bud since that very day !" 



THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 277 



THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 

A CARVEN arrow's head once bore 

This legend of the days of yore, 
From wide-spread pampas to my door; 

So, hear me tell it. 
Long buried was this arrow's head 
Where reaches of deep green outspread, 
Beneath a turquoise sky, so fair, 
That paradise seemed mirrored there, 
Stretched to the Andes far away : 
This tale of Love it breathes to-day, 

And what befell it. 
Ere the white man's conquering horde 
Trod those pampas wild and broad ; 
When the condor's mighty wings 
Swept these mountain openings, 
Poising over caverns vast 
On which never had been cast 
Eye of mortal ; ere these caves 
Had become the silent graves 
Of the dwellers of the rocks 



278 THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 

Cleft and crumbling with the shocks 

Of the tempest and the storm 

Hurled when loomed the earthquake's form, 

Shattering with giant hands 

These primeval mountain lands, 

Delving awful deeps where Fear 

Ever since has hovered near — 

Ere this time a savage race 

Made these plains a dwelling place. 

Strong of limb, bronze-brown of hue, 

Valiant, and of purpose true ; 

In the chase of eagle flight, 

Brave and crafty in the fight ; 

Bold of heart, to fear a stranger, 

Morn would see the savage ranger 

Speeding o'er the plains in battle, 

With a foeman's ire aglow, 
Nerved on by the war-drum's rattle, 

Armed and eager for the foe! 
Noon, beneath the palms o'erspreading, 
Shade and sweet contentment shedding, 
Saw the maidens coyly gathered 

In a circle bright and fair, 
With their garments gaily feathered — 



THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 279 

Plumage varied, rich and rare. 
Ah ! for lovers then they waited, 

Hastening from battle dire ! 
On their prowess contemplated, 

Eager for their heart's desire! 
Twilight, with its purple wings, 

Over them made shadows deep : 
Where the tangled foliage swung, 
And the vine in clusters clung, 

Nature wooed to tranquil sleep 
Pampas, hill and wooded steep, 
Then crept stealthily from lair 
Beasts that shunned the daylight fair. 
Slid the lizard thro' the leaves, 
Where the noisome spider weaves ; 
Twined the snake on dewy trees 
Motionless on moonlit leas. 
From his huge and horrid den 
Strode the fierce gorilla then, 
Making hideous with his cry 
Every region neath the sky 
That his lungs of brass could reach 
With reverbrated screech ! 
While the cougar, from the limb, 



2 8o THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 

Crouched, and darted on the dim 
Covert of the Night, his stare 
From two eyes with rage a-glare! 
Yet from the forest and the plain, 
And from the Andes to the main, 
Along the Orinoco's sweep 
There spread no terror half so deep, 
No fear like that this monster brought 
Thro' deeds of cruel vengeance wrought 
On those who ventured on his path 
And met the demons of his wrath! 
Half man, half devil ! horror vile ! 
No Caliban from Fancy's Isle 
So fierce, so unrelenting, foul, 
As he that bore the hideous scowl 
Of a malignant, deathless hate 
T'wards all God's creatures animate ! 

* * ;;< 

Brave was the Chief in the pride of his youth, 
Child of a sire who had long passed away ; 

Fair was the maiden in whose eyes the truth 
Shone as the dew on the lilies of May! 

Sweet was the love that was plighted at eve 
Under the stars that were clustering bright ; 



THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 281 

Lone was the heart that was destined to grieve, 

Steeped in the darkness of Misery's night! 
Often they wandered beside the clear stream, 

Often it listened to vows that they told; 
Love held their souls in its beautiful dream — 

Love that in spite of Time never grows old ! 
He was her pride for his valor and fame ; 

She was his idol of grace past compare ; 
Joy of his heart, like a spirit she came 

Bringing to him all things lovely and fair! 
Soon were their lives to be wedded with joy, 

Like mountain torrents that meet on the plain! 
Joined with a passion that naught could destroy — 

Fraught not with shadows of sorrow or pain. 
Nature's sweet children they were, in its prime, 

Free and untrammeled by Fashion or Art; 
Love knows no season, and Love knows no Time ; 

Their's was the pure, virgin bond of the heart! 
* * * 
"Omene, dearest," spoke her love 
''Take from my lips these gifts above ; 
See those the false and fickle claim — 
My kisses ! Give me back the same !" 
Ah ! beautiful she lingered there 



282 THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 

Framed in her wealth of raven hair 
That in the moonlight shone as fair 

And glossy in its splendor 
As did those orbs of midnight hue 
That uttered, mutely, answers true 

To words of love so tender ! 
"Good -night, Omene, now we part 
But for awhile; yet in my heart 
I keep thee as a flow'r that blooms 
Amid some far-off desert glooms, 
So sweet, so rare thou'lt ever be, 
Dear Indian maiden, unto me !" 
They parted in the silver gleam 
Of moonlight ; each to fondly dream 
Of bliss that was for them in store : 
They parted — to meet nevermore ! 
In dreams, the maiden's raptured gaze, 
Softrlighted by Love's ardent rays, 
Beheld the Future's radiance shine 
In rapture that was all divine! 
In dreams, she held her lover's hand 
Threading the groves of fairy-land ! 
The angels sang to soft repose 
Her heart, as breezes lull the rose 



THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 283 

Of twilight to its gentle sleep, 
So calm, so restful, and so deep ! 
* * * 
With stealthy stride from out the wood 
Who glides in wrathful solitude? 
The fierce gorilla nears the tent, 
Xow straight he glides, now lowly bent, 
Glares 'round him with a cunning leer! 
Oh, maiden, quaileth not with fear 
Thy gentle heart, e'en in thy dreams, 
As onward fall the baleful gleams 
Of those fell eyes where lights of hell 
Blaze in their flames unquenchable? 
One scream of wild and lone despair 
Cleaves like a knife the torrid air! 
Then, in his arms, with mighty stride 
He bears the maiden far away 
While gleam the skies with tints of day, 
And fall the shrieks of wild dismay ! 

5£ %■ % 

On, on, like a torrent in turbulent might, 
The sons of the forest spur after in flight ! 
With heart all aflame rides the chief at their head, 
To rescue the maiden tho' living or dead ! 



284 THE LEGEND 0F THE ARGENTINE. 

Past tangle of vines, over river and hill, 
By valley and wood, over cascade and rill, 
In gorge and ravine, till the desert afar 
Shines on their gaze, like the gleam of a star ! 
By night and by day o'er the desert they speed, 
It bears not a leaf, no not even a weed ! 
But yonder, afar on its ultimate verge, 
There blooms an oasis ! Still onward they urge 
Their fast failing steeds on the gorilla's track, 
No ardor they lose and no courage they lack : 
They care not for hunger, they heed not- the thirst, 
For fierce the revenge that their maddened hearts 
nursed. 

Day follows day; they journey on, 

Until their hope has well nigh gone ! 

No food, no water anywhere, 

Nothing but one all-binding glare 

Of sun ! Steeds drop on every side 

Their forms bestrew the desert wide 

To gorge the buzzards of the air 

That hover o'er their pathway there ! 

With sun-baked lips, the riders lie 

Beside their panting steeds to die. 

They talk of rivers gushing free, 



THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 285 

Of fountains in the desert sand ; 
Of brooks that purl in melody; 
But Death lurks there on every hand ! 
Pale, quivering forms cry for one drop 
Of water; but the rest ne'er stop — 
They follow where the chieftain leads 
Who little all the anguish heeds ! 
One thought is his in pain and death — 
To rescue her ere his last breath ! 
They mark his tracks upon the sand — 
That monster's — and the lessening band 
Still staggers on! He looms in sight — 
Seems laughing in at their hapless plight ! 
The maiden in his arms he holds 
His mighty clutch her throat enfolds ! 
♦ * * 
From crag to crag leaping, still upward he flies, 
The fierce fire of Hell in his terrible eyes, 
He laughs his pursuers to scorn as he bears 
His fair burden on to the dim mountain lairs 
Of the cougar and jaguar, o'er crevice and cleft, 
With the might of a giant of pity bereft! 
Up, up, till he reaches the furthermost edge 
Of the precipice, piercing the clouds, like a wedge, 



286 THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 

Till clearly in view of the young chief he stands, 
And holds o'er the deep yawning gulf in his hands 
The maiden ! 

With horror and hopeless despair, 
The chief presses on, in his heart a wild prayer 
That the gods of his tribe will lend succor and aid. 
And safely restore to him yon helpless maid. 
"Hold ! Horrid monster ! Curse thy hand !" 
He cries, while mockingly doth stand 
The creature of his vengeful hate ! 
The arrow of the chief too late 
Wings from its leash ! Down caverns vast 
The maiden with a shriek is cast, 
Just as the fatal poisoned dart 
Is fleshed within the man-ape's heart ! 



Years afterwards her grave they made 
Where the wild flowers gem the glade ; 
And where the bright-winged birds flit by, 
Singing their songs to earth and sky. 
Beside her lies the chief whose love 
Was more to her than Heaven above ! 



THE LEGEND OF THE ARGENTINE. 287 

Long, long, the tribe this legend told 
Of those dark, savage days of old — 
Of valor bright, of Love so true. 
As I have told it unto vou. 



288 MOANEE. 



MOANEE. 

(A Tale of the Foot-Hills.) 

TTARK to this tale of the foot-hills lone — 

This legend that lights the Western zone 
With its glow of human kindliness 

That the savage heart, loathe to confess 
Still shows, like gold hid in dull earth, 

Which to the eye puts forth its mirth 
After the passion,-shock of storm 

That rends the pine tree's towering form. 
Hark to the night-winds ! in their tones 

Fancy may hear the parting moans 
Of many a brave in days of old 

Who reddened these arid, level sands, 
As ancient legends have often told, 

In the wild foray, where the savage bold 
With his schemes of cunning manifold, 

Oft led to battle his murderous bands. 
Here are whitened bones that peep to-day 

When the storm-wind sweeps the sands away. 
Here are arrows that have sped their flight 

In the horrible tumult of the fight ; 



MOANEE. 289 

Yon grand, majestic cliff could tell 

Of the wild and hideous savage yell, 
Like a voice that came from the pits of hell ! 

And this canyon's dim and vasty deeps 
Where breathless silence ever keeps 

Its lair, with awesome vigilance, 
Could whisper of the fierce advance, 

In war-paint hideous to view, 
Of cruel hordes, here to imbue 
Their hands in hated tribal blood 

That flowed like a sunset-tinted flood 
When the carnage of the strife began, 

And the battle was fiendish man to man. 
Not the panther in his mighty wrath 

Prowled to destroy, on his midnight path, 
With a more relentless, vengeful hate 

Than the savage showed while he w r ould wait, 
Low-crouched, upon these level plains, 

Once deeply dyed with gory stains, 
For the coming of his treacherous foe 

In the horrible days of the long ago ! 
Not a rattlesnake with its head erect, 

And its coils with dark-hued scales bedecked, 
Bore such malignance in its glance 



290 



MOANEE. 



As the savage eyes, keen as a lance, 
Glared at the signs along the trail, 

Which never he had known to fail, 
That told him of the stealthy tread 

Of the enemy he was taught to dread 
By long hereditary spite, 

In those terrible days of savage might ! 
So I tell the legend, as it was told 

By the camp-fires in the times of old, 
When the blue smoke rose above the pines, 

In a thousand curling, waving lines, 
And the warriors of the plains, at peace, 

To all their battles gave surcease. 

-!« % ^ 

Fairest of Indian maids — • 
Sprite of these emerald glades — 

Was Moanee, whose sire 
The Chieftain proud and brave, 
Ne'er would to foemen crave — 

Whose heart was raging fire ! 
Her step was like the fawn's 
That glided at the dawn's 

First light upon the hill ! 
Her hair, the raven's wing 



MOANEE. 291 



That poised above the spring 

That glistened 'mid the bloom ! 
Her eyes were dark of hue, 
Bespeaking courage true. 

And still untouched by gloom. 
The child of Nature's choice, 
Lovely, and mild of voice, 

A maid beyond all fear; 
Joy of the Chieftain's heart. 
Of his lone life a part 

His comfort year by year 
She grew to womanhood, 
This nymph of grove and wood, 

The tribe's bright hope and joy ; 
Woe to the blighting hand — 
Death to the dastard band 

Would Moanee destroy! 
There was no deed too bold 
In those dark days of old 

Nor punishment too dire 
Of fiercest, torture-fire 

To visit on his head 

Who dared the might so dread 
Of Moanee's proud sire! 



292 MOANEE. 



He loved her with a passion tender, 

To him she was his all in all; 
Her thought was but of him ; to render 

A daughter's love whate'er might fall, 
Tho' o'er him grew the clouds of sorrow, 

Tho' tempests of defeat each morrow 
Assailed him, she was ne'er denied. 

Tho' her Life's joys were multiplied 
For this red chief of all his race 

Upon whose grand and stoic face 
Love set its mark of haughty pride 

In her — the daughter at his side ! 
In chase and battle she was near 

The bow and arrow in her hands 
Answered her spirit's swift commands ; 

And all the tribe her prowess knew, 

Paying her queenly reverence due ; 
For was she not their Warrior Queen, 

In savage womanhood serene, 

The naiad of that desert scene ? 

But Love had come to the maiden's heart, 

With all its sweetness and all its pain — 

The keen delight and the bitter smart — 



MOANEE. 293 

Its burst of starlight, its tears of rain ! 
She gave her soul to her sire-chief's foe 

Brave Eagle-Wing, who in many a blow 
Of fiercest conflict her sire defied. 

She had promised to become his bride 
When Autumn leaves had to crimson changed, 

And the wildwood trail o'er which they ranged 
Had its emerald glories turned to gold 

In a wealth of beauties manifold. 
But a rival warrior of her band 

Had wooed her for her heart and hand — 
Lone Wolf, who looked with a scowl of hate 

On his enemy kindlier used by Fate ; 
Who was smiled upon by the maiden fair 

Whom the tribe had guarded with tender care ; 
And for vengeance sought he early and late. 
* * * 

She had laughed his ardent vows to scorn, 
All her sharp rebukes he had meekly borne, 

But within his breast his smouldering ire 
Lay buried, like the volcano's fire, 
And he vowed to win her, his heart's desire ! 

But the Indian maiden arch, yet coy, 
Went on her way in the bountiful joy 



2 94 MOANEE. 



Of a Love that Heaven to her had sent — 

In which each thread of Life's woof was blent ! 
* * # 
The dawn was tinting peaks of snow 

With its enamelled, roseate glow, 
That flashed from rocky cleft and cave 

To the boundless deeps of gloom below, 
And to the scene a grandeur gave, 

As the glinting arrows of the sun 
Glanced here and there, with light intense, 
In a maze of wild magnificence ! 
The Western world from nest awoke, 

And mists arose on high — 
The great All Spirit to invoke — 

Ascending, incense-like, unto the sky ! 
It was Dawn, as yet, of Life 

The mountain-torrents, as in play, 

Tossed to the breeze their diamond spray ; 
And leaped along from steep to steep, 
Sparkling in every crevice deep. 

The birds poured forth a matin song 
That rippled down the jubilant breeze, 
And rang in joyous symphonies 

The leafy groves along. 



MOANEE. 295 



It was a Dawn, as yet, of Life 

All unembittered by the strife 
Of foes in turbulent array. 
As if to mock the glorious Day 

Xew-born unto a teeming earth ! 

As if to turn to darkest dearth 
Fair scenes with p'ladness rife ! 



.-> j 



Hark ! with a horrible rush and a roar — 
Boom of the surf on a storm-smitten shore — 
Crash of the terrible avalanche-pour 
Met mighty legions contending! 
Faces that gleam with a fiendish delight. 
War-painted ; arrows in murderous flight, 
Steeds that out-thundered in hoof-beating might 

Tempests their fury expending! 
Out of the hell of the battle that rages — 
Like unto beasts just set free from their cages — 

Eagle Wing singles out Lone Wolf, while he 
Watches his rival. 

The challenge is given, 
While the blue firmament o'er them is riven 
With veils that are momentlv stifled in Death ! 



296 



MOANEE. 



And trampling of steeds that are crushing the breath 

From foemen whose war-paint in mockery there 

Mingles with gore in the sun's vivid glare ! 

On speed the rivals o'er the plain, 

Until a space apart they gain 

Far from the battle's deafening din ; 

Their prize — the maid each strives to win ! 

The mountains tower on either side, 

The river glistens deep and wide, 

The pine trees look in lofty pride 

Upon the warriors bold ; 
Alas ! a moment later they see 
Prone on the sands in agony 
Eagle Wing, whose death rattle sounds 
Amid those silent, desert mounds ! 
His dying steed beside him lies, 
O'er them the glaring, parching skies. 
Lone Wolf looks on his rival's fate 
With glances of malignant hate. 
A haughty smile comes o'er his brow. 
But, lo ! with sweet compassion now 
He from the saddle swiftly swings, 
And running to the river brings 
A draught of water for those lips 



MOANEE. 

Deep-purpling in pale Death's eclipse ! 
He bids him drink in accents mild, 
As he would speak unto a child. 
"Moanee !" came the whisper low ; 
"Moanee ! Love ! from Life I go, 
Bearing the sweetest thoughts of thee 
Unto the happy hunting land; 
By the Great Spirit thus set free ! 
Farewell ! Farewell, forevermore !" 
Then no sound the zephyrs onward bore. 



Down from the zig ; -zag mountain trail, 
Rushed the Indian maiden wild and pale, 
With a horde of warriors following her 
Over the dangerous rock-ribbed spur! 
She is kneeling by her lover's side, 
She is holding him unto her breast, 
In the anguish of her soul's unrest! 
Lone Wolf, pursued, made prisoner 
And firmly bound they brought to her. 
She cast on him a loathing look 
Of deepest scorn. 



297 



298 



MOANEE. 



"This is thy work!" 
She cried, and from her quiver took 
Her keenest arrow. 

"Shall there lurk 
Within my heart one pitying thought 
For him who has this foul deed wrought ? 
Die !" 

"Stay your hand!" Lone Wolf replied, 
"In gage of battle thus he died ! 
My life was free for him to take ! 
It was the chance of War that gave 
Me life, and him the silent grave ! 
Xot for your pity now I crave. 
The Indian brave fears not to go 
Where he has sent his conquered foe ! 
My heart relented ere had fled 
The spirit of the noble dead 
I brought wherewith to quench his thirst, 
And back to life I would have nursed 
Him for your sake, because your love 
Is dearest to my heart — above 
All thoughts of vengeance !" 



MOANEE. 299 

'Mid her band, 
The arrow dropped from out her hand. 
"Loose him, and let him safely go !" 
She said, "Were he the foulest foe 
I could not, would not do him harm 
For he was kind, his noble arm 
Would soothe where he had laid the blow ! 
A father gone in this day's fight: 
Oh, do I read your thoughts aright, 
Brave band, and Chief he now shall be !" 
Lone Wolf thanked her, on bended knee, 
Kissing the hand she offered him 
There in the twlight gathering dim. 

* ♦ * 
Then the pine trees gazed on another scene 
After the lapse of moons serene ; 
And the mountains seemed to hide their frown 
Silently, solemnly peering down 
On the festal dance and the songs of glee, 
As Lone Wolf wedded fair Moanee! 



3oo 



THE OREGONIAN. 



THE OREGONIAN. 

TTNDER the skies of the infinite azure, 

Under the silver of myriad stars ; 
Nigh to the mountain's majestic embrasure, 
Awful and grand with its abysmal scars; 
Here let me bide in my joyous contentment — • 
Here with the birds and the cattle that roam — 
Owing the world not a tithe of resentment, 
Over me God's multitudinous dome ! 
Long leagues of land in the blaze of the sunlight, 
Stretching afar to the horizon's verge ; 
Then, at the darkness, the soft gleam of one light- 
Star of my cabin — while homeward I urge. 
Here it is God's Land, and Heaven is nearer ! 
Dies all the petty contention of earth ; 
Even the brooks and the flowers seem dearer 
Bound to my heart by a fair higher worth 
Than all I find in the din of the rabble, 
Crazed with its race for the gaining of gold, 
Wild with the noise of its incessant babble — 
Type of the heathenish Babel of old ! 



THE OREGON I AN. 301 

One with my soul is the rush of the torrent 
Tearing its course down precipitant deeps ! 
Even the rattle of reptile abhorrent 
Blends with the bird-song, and harmony keeps ! 
Room for the soul's broad expansion is 'round me, 
Room for the sympathies tethered in town ; 
Here can I break all the fetters that bound me, 
Cast all society's heresies down ! 

Nature is mine with its beautiful sweetness — 
Laughter of winds in the lightness of Spring ; 
Glory of flow'rs in radiant completeness ; 
Canyons and clefts where the wild echoes ring ; 
Waterfalls gleaming with hues iridescent, 
Swirling in thunderous vehemence by ; 
Snow-peaks that lift to the moon's pearly crescent, 
Piercing the blue of the luminous sky ; 
Flight of the vulture that airily poises — 
Eager to sweep on its quarry afar; 
Insects that utter their petulant noises — 
Far better these to my heart than the jar 
And turbulent warfare of wild, crowded places 
Knowing no God but the God of base gain ! 
Tricked by the glamour of deceiving faces, 



302 



THE 0REG0NIAN. 



Filled with the spectres of want and of pain ! 
Oh, for the rare fragrant breath of the prairie 
Bearing the scent of the long waving grass ! 
Oh, for the bright plumed birds ! And the airy 
Voice of the pines ; and the rivers, like glass, 
Sweeping majestical, silvery-winding, 
Onward, still onward, and evermore finding 
Gorgeous magnificence over them bending, 
Gold of the sunlight and silver of starlight 
Evermore blending and unto them lending 
The power and grandeur that live not in Art 
But only are born out of wild Nature's heart 
Their beauty, their gladness, their rest to impart ! 

* * ♦ 
Mine be the serpent that slips thro' the sand. 
With sinous sliding, and malignant glance ; 
Mine be the cyclone fierce, mighty and grand. 
For in its fury one has half a chance ! 
Give me the grizzly, tremendous of paw. 
Rather the vulture, the sleek lizard's jaw — 
Aye, rather these than the scandal and spite 
The spleen and the jeer of the opulent crowd, 
The way of the world that has made Mammon might, 
And utters its sophistries blatant and loud ! 



THE OREGON I AN. 303 

At least I have rest from the long, hopeless quest 
Of a love that can never — ah ! never be mine ! 
There is rest in the rill, and the pines of the hill, 
In the lone, brilliant stars, and the moon's placent 

shine ! 
There is peace in the sound of the wild waterfall 
That bloweth its trumpet on storm- jagged steep 
To summon the echoes of yon canyon's wall, 
And, like tangled silver, then headlong to leap ! 
There is joy for the heart that can hope nevermore. 
Forsaken by Love in the days passed away : 
For Nature alone can its calmness restore, 
And teach it to hold taunting Mem'ry at bay ! 

Why utter the story of one all untrue — 

Of Love's tender vows in their holiness shattered? 

The severance bitter, the scornful adieu. 

The jewels of confidence thus rudely scattered! 

I meet no rebuff in the elements near me ; 

The wild creatures slink from my pathway and fear 

me; 
To me they are harmless, and bear me no scorn. 
Fit comrades are they for hearts hopeless, forlorn ! 
Rich butterflies, like gaudy flowers awing, 



304 THE OREGONIAN. 

Amid tangled vines gayly hover and swing; 
Close hid, the panther crouched low on the branch 
Waits but to fall, like a fierce avalanche ! 
Sunning itself in the bright, blinding glare 
Of noontide the rattler lies coiled in the sand ; 
And songs of the birds on the bloom-scented air 
I hear, like the echoes from far fairy-land ! 
The river my comrade is, restlessly flowing, 
Onward, still onward, in broadening view, 
Beauty and charm to the wildwoods bestowing, 
Mirroring stars in their eloquent glowing, 
Mirroring heaven translucently blue, 
Lulling to quiet my heart in its passion, 
Soothing its anguish, it still is a friend ; 
But, when the lash of the storm bids it dash on, 
Sweeping its banks with a boundless unrest, 
Bearing its rage and its hate in its breast, 
Showing its fangs in the white of each crest, 
Wild in its anger the forest to rend — 
Then is my heart with its infinite yearning 
One with the river, all passionate, spurning 
Human control, with a deep inward burning, 
Filled with a scorn that seems never to end! 
Scorn of the love that was falser than human ! 



THE OREGONIAN. 305 

Scorn of the vows of a false-hearted woman ! 
Kinder the flame of the red lightning's stroke 
Rending the heart of the huge forest oak ! 
Aye, far more merciful were the cyclone 
Sweeping destruction o'er circle or zone, 
Dashing its way with an uncontrolled ire, 
Swift as the wings of a whirlwind-lashed fire ; — 
Kinder, more merciful these than the love 
Slighted and scorned; for the angels above 
And the demons below must with pity condemn 
The heart that would barter the rare, priceless gem 
Of affection, so full of a richness untold — 
Aye, barter it all for a handful of gold ! 

I wonder if now in that city afar, 

The whirl of its crowds, and the tumult and jar, 

Her heart hath forgotten the vows that we plighted ? 

The night at the porch by the stars dimly lighted ? 

The winds soft and low, and the roses asleep ? 

The nightingale trilling its cadences deep? 

I see the rich hue of her cheeks all aglow ; 

I touch her warm hand, small, and white as the snow 

That gleams to the stars on yon peaks far away ; 



306 THE OREGONIAN. 

And my heart reads the words that her eyes mutely 

say! 
Oh, the world then to me was a Paradise rare, 
And she was its Eve in her loveliness fair ! 
But the serpent came early the joy to despoil, 
The glamour of beauty to wither and soil, 
And leave in its place but a heart-blighting care 
To follow my life with its burden and toil ! 
One night — I had been on the trail since morn — 
I was weary, dejected and sadly forlorn — 
(Ere the sweet love of Nature was in my soul born, 
And I'd learned its philosophy, tender, consoling, 
The delicate harp-strings of life all controlling, 
And blending in harmony discords of Time 
In one peerless song, rare, ecstatic, sublime!) 
I mused in my hammock; the night's deepening shade 
Hung heavy o'er ravine and river and glade ; 
And, like the low rumble of hoofs on the plain, 
I heard the deep thunder presaging the rain, 
The pines wildly writhing like giants in pain ! 
A face, white with anger and terror, appeared — 
The eyes glared upon me as if they still feared 
A living resentment that would not be hushed ! 
The blood of a wound from her heart madly gushed ! 



THE OREGONIAX. 307 

Twas she — 'and she reached out her hand to me there — 
And said in a voice that was wild with despair : 
"Forgive me! Forgive me! I cast Love away — 
I saw all its roses in brightness decay, 
And Life with me since has been bitter dismay I" 

I strove to arise ; but my limbs were like lead, 

I tried hard to speak ; but words none I said ! 

She knelt at my side pleading thro' blinding tears, 

And told me the story of sad, loveless years. 

But still I replied not, my tears would not flow ; 

I laughed at the words of her pitiful woe ! 

For had I not suffered, unpitied for years ? 

Could this be assuaged by a false woman's tears ? 

She clung to me there in her anguish supreme, 

And, by the swift glare of the lightning's sharp gleam, 

I saw a face pallid and deep-lined with pain — 

(Oh, God ! that I ever should see it again !) 

She told me of long years of bitterness spent, 

And begged that my heart would its anger relent ; 

She spoke of the days ere her promise was broken, 

She showed me a withered rose — Love's early token, 

And pictured the Past and the beautiful years 

With eloquent yearnings and passionate tears ; 



3 o8 



THE OREGONIAN. 



The porch ; and the old trysting place in the dell ; 

The lane ; and the scenes that my heart knew so well ; 

Her fair Northern home with sweet woodbine em- 
bowered, 

Its garden, its meadows with daisies o'erflowered. 

I saw, yes, and yonder the school on the hill ! 

I heard once again the harsh whir of the mill 

Where as fair childish sweethearts we loitered to see 

The dash of the waters that swept by in glee. 

But what was her anguish, her pleading to me ? 

For had I not suffered since that far-off day? 

And had not my current of Life turned away 

From all joys it knew and their beauty and sweetness, 

From Hope's lovely dream and its fruitful complete- 
ness? 

And all for her sake and her false, wilful pride 

That thrust me an outcast so far from her side, 

And turned unto gall the sweet cup of pure love, 

Yea, changed to fierce hate the content of the dove ! 

I spurned her, I say, with a strong man's fierce wrath ! 

I bade her begone — no more darken my path ! 

For the tempest without could not equal the might 

Of that in my heart at her terrible sight, 

And the thought of the life she had come but to blight ! 



THE OREGONIAN. 309 



With a crash that resounded from cavern to peak, 
And a glare, as if risen from Hell's awful deeps — 
(Or the red of a flame as in fury it sweeps 
O'er the prairie — ) she turned then to speak : 
And I woke from the clutch of a horrible dream ! 
She had fled ; and I saw in the last lurid gleam 
The eyes of a serpent that crawled at my feet, 
To me and my cabin companion more meet 
Than the woman who vowed to be mine long ago, 
But whose vows were as light as the sun-lighted snow 
That melts into tears in the mild spring-time breeze — 
Yea, as trustful as waves of the treacherous seas ! 
Then I saw the first glimmer of dawn in the skies 
Rose-tinting the mountains that 'round me arise, 
And purpling the caverns and pine-covered hills 
And spreading its glories o'er rivers and rills, 
Like the blessing of God on his handiwork below 
O'er the land that had nothing to do with Life's woe ! 
And I thanked Him for being, and strength to live on 
For the grandeur of all these eyes rested upon ! 
For the nights of the keen orbs that spangled His 

throne. 
For the deeps of the canyons reverberant, lone. 
For the mountains that up, up in majesty rear 



3io THE OREGONIAN, 



Till they pierce through the clouds to the luminous, 

clear. 
Azure space far beyond ; and the glitter and glow 
Of the stars softly fall on their manes white with snow ! 
And I thanked Him again for the pathways I trod, 
Where the human within me was kindred with God ! 
For what is the Orient o'er seas of blue 
With the languor of palms dripping spice-laden dew — 
Mosques and minarets stretching away to the skies, 
And its blossoms and flowers of infinite dyes, 
Or its maidens with night in their soft, melting eyes? 
Have I not in the breath of the pines o'er my head 
All the sweets, the delights ever Paradise shed? 
And the lessons of mountains here lifting my soul, 
With the language of rivers that ceaselessly roll, 
Rushing onward and on to the far-away goal ! 
Why for Eastern delights should my restless heart 

sigh ? 
Here dwelleth all joys that the earth can supply. 
In the open for me is the heart's pure desire, 
With a room for content, and a sphere to aspire ! 
On the trail, in the round up of cattle, I sing, 
With the lariat unleashed, like a bird on the wing ! 
Here, alone, I am lord, in my freedom a King! 



THE OREGONIAN. 



311 



There is joy in the watch of the herd 'mid the night 
When the stir of the wind sets them often in flight, 
And the clash of the horns, and the billowy sweep 
Of the dark, huddled throng echoes harshly and deep ; 
And I gallop along while my broncho I spur, 
'Mid the wild ever-echoing tramping and whir 
Till the leaders I head in precipitate flight — 
There is joy in it all and a wondrous delight ! 
So why should I sigh for the dazzle and glare 
Of the city, and all that most men deem so fair, 
When I know 'tis a world of delusion and snare, 
Of crime and pretense, and of scandal and wrong, 
Where the soul is oft bartered for gold, and the poor 
Have Misery's lot evermore to endure? 
And why should I care for a love that is lost? 
I have counted the gains of it all, and the cost! 
I have known the deceit that can lurk in bright eyes, 
The sting of false hearts I have learned to despise. 
All is vanity there ; but I breathe here the Truth 
In broad Nature's domain of perennial youth ! 
There is pleasure for me in the green dewy blade, 
In the trees and the flowers of valley and glade ; 
The deeps of the blue sky, and the songs of the birds ; 
Day's dawn ; and the noontide of quivering heat, 



3i2 THE OREGON I AN. 



And the sound of the heart-thrilling echoing beat 
Of the steed as it rushes away o'er the plain. 
Tho' often at night but the limitless sky 
Is roof of the spot where I wearily lie, 
I am happier far than if sheltered with pride 
In a palace where Untruth and Envy abide 
With its mates of Hypocrisy, Falseness and Wrong, 
And the glamour of riches cast over the throng ! 
So mine be the mountains that climb to the stars, 
The gulches, the canyons that carry the scars 
Of the Ages deep-lined in their adamant breasts ; 
The peaks with the snow on their high-lifted crests, 
The grandeur, the beauty, the sweet, boundless peace 
That give to the spirit of sorrow surcease ! 
So live I ; and when to my rest I shall go, 
My grave be the prairie, where winds breathing low 
Shall sing me a requiem tender and soft, 
And yonder deep caverns that tower aloft 
My monument be till the great Judgment day 
When the earth and its wrongs have all passed away ! 
Oregon, 1888. 



MIRAGE. 



MIRAGE. 



313 



"V/TUST I then leave thee, O treasure dear — leave 

Thee forever — after all these years of 
Love and longing, tears and laughter ? Shall dark 
Clouds swim before mine eyes on wings of air 
Invisible, and hide thy radiant 
Presence from me? Shall I walk the halls of 
The forgotten and rejected, they who 
Roam about mechanic-like in shrouds of 
Tears ? 

Long have I dreaded this — the bitter 
Hour, that ghost-like would come to sweep away 
The bright anchors of my hope, and leave me, 
Like a frail bark to the mercy of the 
Storm-tossed deep — my lacerated heart and 
Soul. 

The sun shall rise and come with flames of 
Gold and shining spears, but nevermore for 
Thou and I. No more to inhale the 
Glorious breath of freedom, shall we roam 
Across the red waves of the Dahna sea ; 
Whose every drop is filled with heat most fierce, 



3H 



MIRAGE. 



Nor listen to the careless jest, and joyful 
Laugh of the dark-skinned Bedouin. 

Here once 
In the dear sweet long ago, thou didst carve 
Proofs of thy true love upon my heart, which 
Still do linger there despite thy changeful 
Mind. 'Twas high noon of the dreaded summer 
Solstice, 'neath Arabian skies 
Of fire, and not a cloud in sight ; we had 
Wandered far from our black tent, upon the 
Flaming dark-brown desert, in frantic search 
Of water, and were gathering up for 
Supper-time, the yellow flow'ry Samh, and 
Green-leafed Mesa'a, when of a sudden, great 
Burning waves of wind came dashing from the 
South ; dark clouds of violet hue drew in 
Upon us from all sides ; it seemed as if the 
Bowels of hell were loosed, and were bounding up 
From earth to sky, and back again with 
Added fury. My senses fled, and I 
Was just about to drop down in the 
Flaming sands, a helpless toy for the 
Simoon's fury which was now upon us, 



MIRAGE. 



315 



When thy strong dark-brown beloved hands did 
Lift me up to thee upon the camel's 
Back, and we were off like meteors for 
Our tent. We reached its side half-perished with 
Heat, and threw ourselves prostrate within, and 
Then I heard thee cry: — "just muffle up thy 
Face secure, and do not stir. Lie still as 
Death till it shall pass away !" With trembling 
Feeble hands, and limbs, I did as thou didst 
Say, and thus was saved. Waves of red-hot heat 
Passed slowly o'er us there. The tent-sides flapped, 
And when mine eyes looked up, it was in realms 
Of Paradise — into thy dear dark anxious 
Eyes, for thou didst think that life within me 
Was extinct. The dark clouds rolled away ; the 
The sun sent down its showers of golden heat 
Once more upon desert's sand, and thou 
Wert by my side. What cared I for the Simoon's 
Wrath, or for the world at all ; 'twas life and 
Joy enough to know that thou wert near, to 
Hear thy voice of melody ; to feel thy 
Hand pressed close to mine. But now alas ! all 
Things seem changed. Thy fairy charms fleet from my 
arms. 



3 i6 MIRAGE. 

Another soon shall clasp thee to his breast. 
Ah ! happy one, that I could mask and take 
His form to revel in thy wealth of passion ! 
'Twould be worth a desert filled with priceless 
Gems! 

In my dreams and only there, shall I 
See thy wondrous beauty once again; shall 
I see thy mighty progress from the womb. 
Long ere Lief Erickson sailed o'er the stormy 
Deep — the rover's paradise, and kissed my own 
Wild western bride, thou didst bare thy breast of 
Jasper and porphyry, to the burning 
Showers the sun sent down. 'Twas here Ishmael 
Wandered, the far-famed archer of old — the 
First to place great actors in thy fields — the 
Powerful progenitor of thy race. And 
Thou in all thy rugged beauty, didst woo 
Them to thy breast. Soon along thy desert 
Seas, the dark-skinned Arabs pitched their tents and 
Lived their roving lives of freedom, save where 
Tetal's hand of iron stretched forth for unity 
And strength. 



MIRAGE. 317 

In my dreams, and only there, shall 
I see thee once again at Mount Sinai, 
(Upon whose heights the Saviour lived, and 
Unto Moses there revealed those grand old 
Poems, the Ten Commandments, that should be held 
As precious to the Christian heart, as the 
Yellow gold the miser hoards). 

The Suez 
Canal shall dawn upon my weary eyes, 
The triumph of commerce, De Lesseps' 
Monument of glory, and fleets of ships 
White-winged and beautiful, shall proudly sail 
Along its bosom, but I shall look, and 
Look in vain for thee. The perfumed breath of 
Nejed shall reach me from afar; its 
Palm groves shall invite me to their shade ; once 
More I shall see the mild-eyed swift gazelle 
Bound past me like a lightning flash, and hear 
The whirring flight of every partridge near, 
But nevermore thy voice of fairy 
Melodies. 

I shall leap upon my 
Arab steed, the meteor of the desert, 



3 i8 MIRAGE. 

And flash past the Wahabee Empire ; 

The thorn-branched Tahl ; the elegant acacia ; 

The date-tree with its amber-coated fruit, 

Shall all be left far, far behind ; mirage 

Shall not deceive mine eyes ; the crowded fairs, 

And the bazaars shall not detain me, nor 

The Katar natives taking pearls from out 

The Persian Gulf. Nothing shall stop my 

Terrible ride, till I reach the star of 

All Arabian hopes, the sacred city 

Of Mecca. Here will I pause before the 

Mosques and minarets, and look to see if 

Thou art 'mongst the throng. But why this wild 

Harangue ? Thank Allah ! 'tis false as hell 

Itself ! Thou art here ! Thou art by my side, 

And my aching heart is drowned in seas of 

Joy ! Here, here on my broad bosom rest — 

Rest safely here my dear Arabian 

Bride. Kisses hot as all thy sands, shall now 

Rain on thy rose-bud lips ! Pearl of Asia, 

And the Indian Seas, look in my eyes, 

For I am thine, and thou art mine 

Forevermore. 



A NUN'S TEMPT A TION. 3 1 9 



A NUN'S TEMPTATION. 

fT is Autumn. A sister of the Convent 

Stands within her cell, near a window 
That overlooks the sea. In her 
Trembling hands she holds a letter, while o'er 
Her tear-stained face a pained expression steals. 
She reads the letter o'er and o'er, then puts 
It in the pocket of her sable gown, 
And gazes sadly at the sun, that is 
Dying slowly in the west with a golden 
Sea of glory 'round it. 

The letter's from 
A lover of the dear old days, when their 
Two hearts were bound in one. It is an 
Eloquent appeal to her to leave the 
Convent, and to marry him. He regrets 
The past, and what he did, and now awaits 
The golden chance to cast himself down at 
Her feet — there to repent forevermore. 
Outside the monastery's walls his 
Carriage stands. He is waiting there for her. 



320 



A NUN'S TEMPTATION. 



He will wait until the sun has vanished, 
And if she fails to come then, he will know 
That she's been true unto her vows, and that 
She'll not forsake the Convent walls for him. 

In the woods beyond, a nightingale thrills 

All the air with melody. The sister 

Hears it with an aching heart, and looks 

Afar once more upon the sun 

Disappearing slowly in the west. She 

Reads the letter o'er again, then opens 

Up her trunk, and packs it with great haste. There 

Is determination in her movements. 

But suddenly she pauses in her work, 

And listens, for the nightingale is singing 

As it never sang before. She looks out 

The window, and observes the pearly clouds 

Collect into a body, and remain 

There as motionless as painted clouds 

Upon a painted canvas. The wavelets 

Of the sea, now cease their dancing, and not 

A sound is heard save the singing of the 

Bird beyond. "Surely," thinks the sister, "all 

Nature now doth listen to those notes of 



A NUN'S TEMPTATION. 



321 



Glory." A bright ray of the setting sun 

Shoots in the cell ; it falls upon a 

Crucifix that stands upon the table, 

And casts its shadow o'er the trunk the 

Sister now is packing. A sweet expression 

Steals into her face. A thought arises 

In her heart, which alas ! she cannot 

Analyze, but the thought has some 

Connection with the crucifix, and vows 

She made long years before. Then comes the sound 

Of Convent Bells, the vesper hour proclaiming. 

The nightingale stops singing. The sun goes 

Down. The sister tears the letter into 

Shreds, and casts them in the fire. She sees her 

Lover's carriage disappear among the 

Hills, and then sinks down upon her knees 

Before the crucifix, her hands clasped o'er 

Her trembling bosom. And all is dark and 

Silent in the cell. The nightingale has 

Sung its poem of glory. The Convent Bells 

Have rung both clear and sweet, throughout the 

tempest 
In her heart, and called her back to duty 
And her vows. 



322 



A NUN'S TEMPTATION. 



Ring on ye Convent Bells of 
Glory ! Send forth your hymns of beauty, for the 
Night is mild, and robed with glitt'ring 
Stars, and crowned with a crescent moon ! - 



GOOD-BYE SWEETHEART. 323 



GOOD-BYE SWEETHEART. 



G 



OOD-BYE, Sweetheart, 
For we must part ; 
Those bitter words are filled with pain. 

I did not dream 

That life would seem 
So cold to me, and all in vain. 

My days were bright, 

No gloomy night 

Until he came, 

His bride to claim, 

The happy past 

Aside is cast, 
For I must say — good-bye, sweetheart. 

One parting kiss, 

I beg for this! 
And tho' I go — I love you yet. 

This last good-bye 

Brings forth a sigh, 
And my poor heart throbs with regret. 

Think once again 

What might have been, 

Had fate been kind 

And love not blind, 

And that will be 

Enough for me — 
I'll ask no more — -good-bye, sweetheart. 



324 ! MI $S THEE. 



I MISS THEE. 

I. 

MISS thee when the morn awakes, 
And all the birds sing out thy name, 
I miss thee by the rippling brook, 
Where first I sought thy love to claim ; 
I miss the music of thy voice, 
That spoke to me of love divine, 
And feel as if my heart would break, 
For I can never call thee mine. 

II. 

I miss thee where we walked so gay, 
Beneath the cloudless summer sky, 
And told our loves so dear and true, 
Before we parted — thou and I ; 
I miss thee when the twilight falls, 
Tis then I long to have thee near, 
I know no life without thy love, 
'Twas bliss alone when thou wert here. 



MINE FORE VERM ORE. 325 



MINE FOREVERMORE. 

1V/TY dream of love, I bless the hour 

When thou didst say, "I love thee so !" 
And feel again — thy kisses thrill, 
While thy dear cheeks are all aglow. 
I glanced back o'er the happy past, 
When first I met thee to adore. 
And find in thee each wish fulfilled, 
For thou art mine forevermore, 
For thou art mine forevermore ! 

dream divine ! O heart of love ! 

1 falter at thy fairy feet, 

For thou art mine forevermore! 

happy day ! O dream of love ! 

1 gaze into thine eyes so blue, 
And hold thee in my trembling arms, 
While my heart whispers : "Thou art true !" 
Each day seems brighter by thy side, 
Each hour more filled with bliss divine ; 

I hear the music of thy voice, 

That tells me softly, "Thou art mine!" 

For thou art mine forevermore! 

How cloudless are the deep blue skies ! 

How sweet the birds sing out thy name, 

For thou art mine forevermore ! 



326 RETROSPECTION. 

RETROSPECTION. 

A I 4 HEY lie before me here, 

Indeed they look like toys- 
So small they seem — yet dead 

To me the many joys 
That in my heart revive 

At sight of these wee mates ; 
Once it seemed paradise 

To put on Nelly's skates ! 

I see the same gay throng 

Swift gliding here and there ; 
I hear the low-hummed song 

That fills the icy air; 
What was the world to me 

With all its loves and hates? 
When bending on my knees 

I put on Nelly's skates ! 

Ah, me ! 'Tis years ago ! 

And, Nelly, where is she? 
No wedded joys I know, 

Life seems a farce to me ! 
The longer tho' I live 

The more love contemplates; 
What wouldn't I now give 

To put on Nelly's skates ! 



THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 327 

THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 
A St. Patrick's Day Reflection. 

f~\ ERIX. lovely Erin ! Will I evermore behold 

Thy heather-covered mountains, and thy 

Autumn fields of gold ; 
Thy relics of ancient splendor, in green-leafed ivy 

bound ; 
Thy lakes and sylvan grandeur with which thy face is 

crowned. 

Shall I see those verdant meadows, as I saw them long 

ago, 
Wafted gently by the zephyrs, as the herd would 

homeward go ; 
Dotted o'er with fragrant lilies — melodious with the 

lark— 
And fed by Xature's tear-drops, that come just before 

the dark. 

Shall I ever feel the pleasure that I did in days of yore, 
When we swung the pretty colleens 'round upon the 
barn floor, 



328 THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 

And matrons gazed in wonder, amid hooray and shout, 
For we sought renown by dancing on, to tire each 
other out. 

Shall I ever climb those rocks, and scan those 
beauteous scenes, 

That Nature formed so lovely by inimitable means, 

And listen to the tuneful song of blackbird and of 
thrush, 

As they proclaim that Spring has come from under- 
neath the bush. 

Shall I mingle with thy people, who though bound by 

cruel fate. 
Have probed the depths of science, made the world 

doubly great, 
But if in friendly foreign lands, my destiny is to roam, 
I'll consider thee, dear ERIN, as still my native home. 



MIDWINTER. 329 

MIDWINTER. 

*7 IG-ZAG branches traced against 

A dreary, ashen sky; 
A filmy drapery of snow, 

And winds that hurry by. 
Oh, dark midwinter days, ye hang 

A pall on all around, 
But underneath the deepest snow 

The sweetest buds are found! 

Icicles that, dagger-like, 

Hang from the farm-house eaves; 
A monotone of weariness 

The howling tempest weaves. 
Oh, sad midwinter days, the heart, 

Like you, hath lack of cheer; 
And yet amid the leafless trees, 

The chirp of birds I hear! 

Dales and hills that stretch afar, 

A wilderness of white ! 
The silent brook that gleams like steel, 

Once silvery delight. 
Oh, wild midwinter, haste away, 

On swift and darksome wing ; 
Tho' hopeful hearts in thee can hail 

The prophesy of Spring ! 



330 



LIFE'S WOES. 



LIFE'S WOES. 

(~\ H, wife, no cloud has settled o'er 

Our nuptials' hallowed joy ; 
Oh, speak ! one word I now implore ; 

Say, what hath caused annoy? 
Is not our honeymoon divine? 
What sorrow hides in heart of thine? 

"On bended knee, behold me, love; 

I kiss the tear that falls 
From out those star-lit eyes above; 

My heart no slight recalls. 
Oh, tell to me thy hidden pain, 
And smile the olden smile again ! 

"Have friendships proven all untrue, 

Or doth some secret woe 
Like Nemesis thy path pursue? 

Oh, tell me ere I go !" 
With burst of tears her heart gave way 
"Dearest, the cook left us to-dav!" 



ON ICE. 331 

ON ICE. 

TJPON one knee 

Before her there, 
He fixed her skates — 

A dainty pair. 
Then, arm in arm, 

How sweet and nice! 
The fondest two 

They were — on ice! 

Such lovely curves ! 

Around they sweep, 
A muff her small 

White hands to keep, 
Within its deep 

He longs to be, 
For surely there 

Is room for three ! 

For Cupid — ah ! 

No danger line ! 
The sky is clear 

The course is fine, 
A slip, a dip, 

They both fall thro'! 
A coldness now 

Is 'twixt the two ! 



332 



SPRING. 



SPRING. 

(By a Musician.) 

VFOW the song-birds, one by one 

Return to join the chorus, 
While the frogs have just begun 
To tune up: blue skies o'er us. 

Breezes pipe o'er vale and hill, 
The trees their batons waving; 

Robins 'mid the branches trill, 
Their high notes never saving. 

The even tenor of their way 

Brooks keep, in greening places ; 

In brief, all nature throngs to-day 
With barytones and basses. 

The year's orchestras now in tune, 

My ear it soft entices, 
Whilst I take out my old bassoon 

To play at union prices ! 



IN WINTER. 333 



IN WINTER. 

TN the sleigh together, 

He and she; 
Lovely Wintry weather, 

Happy he. 
Round her waist, so cosy, 

One arm free; 
Cheeks are blushing rosy 

As can be ! 

This, while joggling slowly 

On their way, 
Thro' the valley lowly, 

Light and gay. 
Soon the air is tingling 

Fast they speed; 
Reins, while bells are jingling, 

Both hands need ! 

Little maid demurely, 

Simply sighs, 
Muffled up securely; 

Witching eyes. 
Speeding clown the high hill, 

Speech she gains: 
"Dearest, rest, and I will 

Hold the reins !" 



334 



THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 



THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 

r^ON'T you remember the days, dear Will, 

The days of long ago, 
When our voices our hearts would thrill 
With their music soft and low? 

Where first we met, down by the gate, 

The evening shadows fell ; 
The stars peeped out, the moon was late ; 

Then tolled the vesper bell. 

An owl sat near on a dying tree 

His lonely watch to keep; 
His burning eyes, turned full on me, 

Sank in my spirit deep. 

I thought of the night my mother died, 

The one who loved me best; 
I shall ne'er forget how I cried 

For her who now is blest. 



THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 335 

I listened to your voice of love 

With its soft, pleading tone ; 
I knew my heart was far above 

With mother who had flown. 

But your words were music to my ear, 

I loved to hear you talk ; 
My future then need have no fear, 

My feet no weary walk. 

The church was very still that day, 

The weather rather damp; 
The silence broke with the organ's play — 

Then burned the marriage lamp. 

The village dames were out in style, 

With curious eyes to see ; 
I saw them all in the middle aisle, 

They gazed at you and me. 

The usual talk the rounds then went 

About the couple wed ; 
The gossip soon its wit had spent, 

To other talk it led. 



336 THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 

The years flew by — those years of joy, 

Which made us feel so glad ; 
We thought that nothing could destroy 

The happiness we had. 

But the stroke then came which made you blind, 

And made my poor heart weep ; 
Your eyes that were of the speaking kind, 

A silence now must keep. 

But I'll always love you, darling Will, 

I'll never leave you, dear; 
Now don't sit thus, and be so still, 

And do not have a fear. 

I'm only talking of those days, Will — 

Those days of long ago; 
When our voices our hearts did thrill 

With their music soft and low. 

We'll wander down the path of life 

With steps of happiness ; 
We will not dream of any strife, 

Nor love each other less. 



TO MY SOUL. 337 



TO MY SOUL. 

A ND darest thou, O soul walk forth with me 

To seas abysmal, the mysterious 
Unknown, from which oftimes at twilight, 
Faint whispering harmonies float on the wings 
Of silent air, and tremble away again 
In silence, but dreamy echoes of the 
Land of glory and of rest. Darest thou 
Tread with me, these unknown paths, far from the 
Maddening world of pomp and vanity. 
Disgrace and vice? No; not till thy dusty 
Prison bursts into dying light, and 
Dissolves itself in mist, and air, and clay 
To nourish Mother earth again ; not till 
The unknown hour arrives, and mysteries 
Are all unveiled as by a flash, the 
Encircling globes and all are visible. 
All understood; not till thy bands are 
Burst asunder, O my soul, shalt thou tread 
These paths with me. 



338 MY WANTS. 



MY WANTS. 

f^ IVE me the gorgeous smiling sun ! Drench me 

With its golden splendors ! Give me lovers 
With full hearts of passion ; let them walk by 
My side ; give me the melodious flowers 
Of the air, the birds that sing to us gaily. 
Give me the mad careering storms ; the 
Thunder, lightning, rain and snow; paint me with 
The brilliant rainbow ; let the sick call me 
By name — give me the leper, lunatic, 
The blind, the paralyzed, the crippled ; give 
Me the sad-eyed orphan ; the drunkard most 
Despised ; the struggling mother ; the kept-woman, 
The hypocrite, the liar, dunce, and miser; 
The fool, the usurer, and thief — let them 
Walk by my side, nay nearer still, let them 
Load all their ills on me ; here let them rest, 
Upon this bosom here — here where the heart 
Throbs with love for them all — and these, and these 
Shall be my wants. None greater can be found. 
None greater shall I seek. 



POLAND. 339 



POLAND. 

CHE walks along her streets once more, 

But feels a stranger in them. Her children 
Pass her by with bowed down heads 
And shackles on their wrists, but speak 
No word — for the breath of tyranny is 
In the air, and they were slaves. She 
Weeps in powerless way, 'neath the iron yoke 
Of oppression — she who was once the 
Glittering gem of Europe — the glorious 
Child whom Lekh first found — the pride 
Of the Jagellon line — she who was led 
Up the paths of glory by Sobieski — the 
Hero who saved Vienna, but could 
Not save her. 

The voice of Russia is in her halls, 
Its chains are on her gates; the sacred lights 
Of liberty — lit and kept aflame by 
The genius of Kosciusko, all, all are now 
Extinguished — and their ashes buried in 
The treacherous heart of Warsaw. 



340 



HAVE FAITH IN THYSELF. 



HAVE FAITH IN THYSELF. 

\X7E are all great and divine, both male 

And female. Skulk not away to some dark 
Corner to bury the ashes of thy dead 
Hopes, in the chamber of thy lacerated 
Bleeding heart, because thou art unknown. 
Unnoticed by the rich and grand, but stand 
Up erect ! Face the world — it owes every thing 
To thee. Art thou not a part of it? 
I swear to you ! that every step you take 
Every breath you draw — 
Every glance you give, 
Every thought you have. 
Every dream that comes. 
Everything you touch, 
Everything you eat, 
Everything you digest, 
Every scene you witness, 
Every word you speak, 
Every feeling you have, 
Every whisper you drop, 



HAVE FAITH IN THYSELF. 34l 

Everything you hear, 

Every sigh you heave. 

Every sorrow you have, 

Every joy that comes, 

Every passion you have, 

Confounds the learning of all times, 

Barries keen-eyed, towering science, and sings 

Such songs, that the little leaves pause in their 

Flight to listen, ere they rustle onward 

To their destiny. 



342 SHE IS NOT TO BLAME. 



SHE IS NOT TO BLAME. 

HT* HOU who hast lived upon the storm of vice, 

Who knew the right, yet walked in paths of sin, 
Ever within thy heart thou didst desire thy 
Freedom from the earthly hell ; to walk in 
Paths of virtue, and of happiness ; to gaze 
With clear and steadfast eyes upon thy neighbors 
And companions ; not living in common 
Level with the dog and hog, but a shining 
Monument to the Creator, and the world. Poor 
Fallen angel, drooping lily of unhappiness, dying 
Swan of virtue, with the last plaintive notes 
In thy sallow complexion, and hunted eyes — 
A word with thee. Stand up in the broad 
Sunshine of gold on the mountain of thy present, 
Glance o'er thy shoulder down the long, long 
Vistas of the past, where sunshine and the angels 
Were ; where the morning-glories of love, truth, 
Beauty and happiness were — the brightness o'er- 

shadowed 
Bv darkness, and dream of what thou art. 



SHE IS NOT TO BLAME. 343 

O ! inhabitant of the levee, why art thou here? 
Methinks I read thy answer in the world. 
Shame and society should not cry out 
Against thee. Common decency should not 
Condemn thee. They should point the accusing 
Finger at man ! And until man can check 
His flow of passion — till he can drive the brute 
From out his soul, we shall have women of 
The town. We may as well try to turn back 
The waters of the sea, as to check this 
Evil, while man gives it his patronage ! 

The very existence of houses of 
Ill-fame are true signs of the immorality 
Of man. Look well, young maid of the blushing- 
Cheek, and pure white heart, look well to the one 
You wed, for the very arms he twines 
About you, may have been twined around a 
Hundred harlots. 



; 4 4 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 



CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 

^OME, said my soul ! walk with me an hour, 

For this muddy garment of decay is 
Filled with tears, such as come from contact with 
The world ; the way is dark and dreary, and we 
Should unite more often for benefit 
Most mutual. Sing to me, therefore, such 
Songs that will float harmony on our way, 
Not leading to dreamland fancies, but truths 
Most solemn and modern, and our tears shall 
Be turned to music, for there is music 
In everything. 



THE STEAMBOAT. 



THE STEAMBOAT. 



345 



LJ O W I love to watch the steamboat, 

As it skims the silv'ry lake 
In the glorious golden sunshine, 

When the morn is just awake; 
And the smoke its sable ringlets 

Wave around its handsome back, 
While it speeds along the wat'ry ground 

It leaves a silv'ry track. 

The men who ride this matchless steed. 
That plows the raging deep, 

Are lost in wonder, love and fear, 

As along the waves they sweep. 

They watch the golden flowers above, 
That bloom in the fields of blue, 

And dream of the loving ones at home 
With loving thoughts most true. 

O ! the music of its whistle ! 

Its throat so sharp and shrill! 
As it echoes o'er the bounding waves 

It makes my heart just thrill ! 
For I love this steed of matchless speed, 

This steed of the waters blue, 
That dashes along the hilly ground 

With feet that are most true. 



346 TRUE. 

TRUE. 

f\ | PURE flow'r of the valley, 

Thy sweetness is dead, 
For the thorns that lie 'round thee 

With hatred are fed ; 
No sister is near thee, 

No bud of thy own, 
To share thy deep sorrow, 

For thou art alone. 

But that virtue is greatest 

Which stands all alone, 
And fights hard for its honor 

When others have flown. 
Though the thorns of thy life-time 

May cause thee great pain, 
Remember that suffering 

Will lead but to gain. 

So thou flower of the valley, 

Droop not thy sweet head, 
Though thy perfume be wasted 

Thy glory's not dead ; 
The false world may leave thee 

To die all alone, 
But the gems of thy sweetness 

Will shine in thy crown. 






THE BROWN LITTLE MAN. 347 



THE BROWN LITTLE MAN. 

HP HE world loves its heroes, 
And desecrates Neros ; 
Despots and tyrants are under its ban ! 

Valor untiring 

One can't help admiring. 
So here's to the brown little man, 

Of Japan ! 

With no fuss and feathers 

(His temper he tethers), 
Stolidly, grimly, he does what he can ; 

Silent, defiant, 

Quite self-reliant — 
Look at the brown little man, 

Of Japan ! 

Fortresses storming, 
Intrepidly forming, 
Cossack and Russian check not his plan ; 



34 8 THE BROWN LITTLE MAN. 

In battles' dread thunder, 
Oh, he's a wonder — 
This fighting, brown little man, 
Of Japan ! 

Sympathy winning, 

Yes, from the beginning; 
The true Yankee spirit you find in his plan 

Tho' his ration fish is, 

And other queer dishes, 
You can't beat this brown little man, 

Of Japan ! 



EASTER-TIDE. 



EASTER-TIDE. 

/^\H, bells that ring out joyfully, 

Awake the hills and vales 
To glories that our eyes may see, 

Bring fragrance to the gales ! 
Ring out all sadness from the heart. 

Bid mirth with us abide, 
And cause the gloomy shades depart, 

Oh, bells of Easter-Tide ! 

Oh, skies of blue, ye seem to lean 

More near to waking dells, 
And fields and mountains, glad each scene 

With rapture, Easter bells ! 
Ah. lonely hearts await your call, 

The message, far and wide, 
Bear jubilantly unto all 

That wait, fair Eastec-Tide ! 

Join rills in glorious refrain, 

Sing birds on merry wing; 
Oh, trouble of the silver rain, 

What gladness do ye bring ! 
The emeralds of springing leaves 

The winter's ruin hide ; 
God's love to every soul that grieves, 

Oh, speak, sweet Easter-Tide ! 



349 



35o 



YULE. 



YULE. 



y-^H, heart of brave humanity, 

^^ How art thou stirred to-day ! 

There is a sound of kindly glee 

That meets thee on thy way. 
Thy pulses throb with happiness 

For, lo ! the star that shines to bless ! 

The Angels' choral symphonies 

Blend now with earthly harmonies, 
In heavenly rhyme 
At Christmas time! 

Back thro' the vista of the years, 
See yonder manger low, 

Beneath its wall the Babe appears 
With face of wond'rous glow ! 

The- majesty of innocence 

That brings to earth a recompense 
For all the sorrow and the gloom, 
And bids sweet Hope again to bloom, 
With peace sublime 
At Christmas time! 



YULE. 

Ring out to earth, ye happy bells, 

Above the mantling snow! 
What joy each sound of yours compels 

While beam the high and low ! 
With peace on earth, and kindness still, 

Re-echo over vale and hill! 

He comes, the Holy Babe of Peace, 

With glory that shall never cease ! 
Speed on, each chime, 
At Christmas time! 

The world is crowned with heavenly light, 

In grasp of kindly hand ; 
In smiles of beauty die all spite 

And scorn throughout the land ! 
New life is wakening; and cheer 

Is throbbing in the heart so drear ! 

The radiant Babe has tenderly 

Brought joy untold to you and me ! 
Ring out, sweet chime, 
At Christmas time ! 



351 



352 



DECEMBER DAYS. 



DECEMBER DAYS. 

\ SONG for bleak December days, 
Tho' not a song is left, 
For birds have gone, 
And woods are lone, 
Of all their joys bereft. 
But what of that, if in the heart 
The Summer birds remain? 
We'll still be gay/ 
And laugh away 
The bleak December's reign ! 

A shout for wild December days, 
Tho' falls the snow and sleet ; 
Who heeds the storm, 
While hearts are warm, 
And smiles are bright and sweet? 
We've had the lovely summer leaves, 
The sunshine and the dew ; 
We'll have them still, 
Old friend, we will — 
December days are few ! 



DECEMBER DAYS. 353 



A cheer for dark December days, 
For bring they not to all 
The brightest hour 
Of Heaven's dower 
That may to mortals fall? 
Oh, days of rare, old Yule-tide joy ! 
The sweetest of the year ! 
That's why we sing 
Your welcoming, 
December days so dear ! 



354 



THE SEASONS. 



THE SEASONS. 

SPRING. 

{In Colorado.) 

t) OBINS in the tree-tops, 

Deeps of turquoise sky ; 
All the leaves a-waking — 

Laughing, low and high ! 
Crowds of snowy daisies 

Twinkling far and near ; 
Oh, the joy of daisy-time, 

Sweetest of the year ! 

Silver rills that tinkle 

'Mid the grasses green ; 
Not a cloud that hovers 

Earth and sky between ; 
Crickets blithely chirping, 

Welcome in with cheer — 
Daisy-time, sweet daisy-time, 

Fairest of the year ! 



SPRING. 

Far away the hill-tops 

In the purple mist 
Gleam a brilliant welcome — 

Gold and amethyst; 
Thrills the world with gladness 

After sadness drear ; 
Who could sigh in daisy-time, 

Brightest of the year? 
Colorado, 1904. 



355 



35^ 



A SONNET. 



A SONNET. 

(Midsummer In Santa Barbara.) 

A MISER I would be to-day, and hoard 

These treasures that I may not clasp again ; 
This flood of gold that drowns upland and plain, 
This billowy bloom that stretches deep and broad ; 
The river, dwindling far — a silver cord — 
And dappled shadows, down this cool, mossed lane 
Whose mirrored boughs the lucent brooklet stain 
With carven jet; these carols now outpoured — 
Melodious rain — among the listening leaves. 
Oh, Benison of boundless, cloudless sky! 
Mine, now, howe'er your sweets may glide away, 
Mine, to delight the while white Winter grieves, 
To dream of when keen drifts go whirling by. 
Can aught to come steal joys I hoard to-day? 

Santa Barbara, 1904. 



OCTOBER. 



357 



OCTOBER. 

Z^ 1 OLDEN brown and crimson leaves, 

Falling, falling everywhere ; 
Ranks of amber- tinted sheaves 

Nodding in the hazy air. 
And it's hey for blithe October, 
Tho' the skies are dull and sober, 

And the air is chill, 

Yet we love thee still, 
Oh, rare and blithe October! 

Here and there, in russet rain, 
Fall the chestnuts from the tree ; 

"Bob White" softly calls again, 
Leaves are dancing in the breeze. 

There's a joy, tho' flow'rs have faded, 

And the sky and storm is shaded, 
For the dreamy days, 
Down these woodland ways, 

Are sweet in blithe October ! 



358 OCTOBER. 

Far off hills, in purple sheen, 
Glow, like lights from fairyland ; 

Vales are clothed in golden green, 
Earth seems now a pageant grand ! 

Tho' the joyful Year is fleeting, 

And belated birds repeating 
Sad and long "Good-bye," 
Where's the heart would sigh, 

In rare and blithe October? 

On the Santa Fe, 1904. 



MIDWINTER. 

MIDWINTER. 
{Wyoming.) 

A WIND that moans o'er lifeless plains 

That wear a snowy shroud ; 
From leafless trees, when sunset wanes, 
No song-bird carols loud 
Its sweet Good-night ; all Nature seems 

As hushed as Death, while far, 
Amid the dying daylight beams 
There shines no welcome star, 
In sad midwinter ! 

All silent where from branches high 

Keen icicles, like spears, 
Hang 'neath a bleak and ashen sky ! 
And yet this thought still cheers : 
Oh, heart, amid the palling dearth, 

The overwhelming gloom, 
Beneath this snow-white shroud of earth, 
Sweet roses bide their bloom 
Thro' lone midwinter ! 

Wyoming, 1904. 



359 



OCT 25 1901 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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